One project ends and another begins.
I began this last summer - the air warm and sweet. Days spent by the water, the sun the sand.
The summer ended.
Good-bye perfumed touch of summer
the light was so responsive
I turned 40.
We went to Paris, rode the trains. Drank coffee on the sidewalks. Asked: “Is it possible that the sky is more expressive here?”
The winter was long. We counted the constellations.
And then, spring.
Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.
And spring made its promises.
And we made our plans.
I believe Icarus was not falling as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
Now, I spend my hours in the garden. Time passes. The sun on my arms, the dirt on my hands, on my face in my hair.
And I read and I write and I go to meetings where I talk and I read and I write and I rush home every day
to put my hands back in the dirt
to feel the warm earth firmly beneath my feet
to see the rooftops and the spires of this city rising up
fallen city, ruined city
city with all its broken bridges
And so I begin again. Not here, not in this place but somewhere else and I will tell you when I know.
dear theoretical loved one,
in parting I give you everything
Again, this morning, birdsong. And the cooing of doves.
Again this morning the hum of the highway.
The light through the leaves.
I will tell you when I get there. And so don’t leave.
you didn’t get everything but you got a lot.