Monday, December 5, 2011
i am having a conversation with you. Mary Oliver sits on my lap and outside it snows only beneath the streetlamp. and i mean to tell you so that you understand, i feel myself slipping into my life as though it is water, and i love it, i rejoice in it, and i haven't the foggiest notion of how to swim. and i am ok with this. i do not fill my pockets like Virginia. i do not leave a note. i keep writing and talking to you in conversation while the water does the work. seasons gather like dried cedar needles puddled against fallen logs. and i am ok with this. you tell me about your children, about your Sam, about the day he left, about the last time you fixed his collar. and my stomach is flaccid, my neck has wattles, and the seasons have gathered like dried cedar needles puddled against fallen logs. and i am ok with this. yesterday i ran with cousins after frogs and by noon i had kissed Johnny Deforge. dinner saw me married and then desert, divorced. and i am ok with this. it snows on outside beneath the streetlamp and i am going under, into my life, under tomorrow, into nothing. every year the river clears itself. and i am ok with this.