[Spring Equinox to Summer Solstice, 2018] It’s the sabbath day of snow. The laying down after the task, the last embrace.
I want to write for no one else, which is perhaps what the snow says on its second snow, the second snow of falling not onto the forest floor but into it, the second snow that only the snow itself watches, only the snow itself feels. Does the snow take a slow inhale of its own wetness sunken in soil? Does the snow linger just to press its chest last, again, into the momentary presence of its own season before revealing, and becoming, what it long protected and will never see?
There are days when I haven’t wanted to write because writing isn’t real enough, when writing is from a place too enclosed to matter on the surface, like the color of the lightless sea. But those days are punctured by these, by this one, the ocean’s pressure bearing down, even the sinking meeting resistance. A day when writing is too real, makes real, reels in, casts wide and tight and traps some things onto the page as real. There have been days when writing compensates nothing, replaces nothing, the touchings of life loud enough. And then this day, which itself exists for another, writing replacing absence, replacing wrongness. There’s already a gap in the world carved out for this writing, it’s not the rare writing which only invites itself into existence, it’s filling in for something else.
I didn’t ask this day for another sadness. I didn’t ask this day for anything, though.
We are among the creatures who look down as we eat, as we find our own food. This gosling looks up, cranes its beady black eyes to the clear sky and pecks for chewed cashews in my lips, the sky’s alimentation. I underestimated how the world so constantly finds ways to begin again. Even inside the pillowcase I could tell there was no longer life, no subtle shifting, no warm inconsistency, just the constant stillness whose shifting’s slower than ourselves.
It seemed to become green almost immediately. Here, time unfolds around me, always folding downwards, as the cat rubs herself against the rocking chair and the green earth drips. Do I feel I deserve less than this abundance of water? Is that why I plan to go to drier places?
At last the air is neither warm nor cool, neither still nor moving, neither moist nor dry. The air makes itself for my body before it reaches me, and enters almost unnoticed.
The student, when asked to write an ode to the wind said he had already written an ode to the wind. And I said, ‘to this wind?’
In the soft evening, the sky uncups its hands to show one moon and one star, the west wind uncupping its breath for the dusk loons. The cedar burns as if it has been waiting to burn, skin peeled and arms wagging. I wondered how it would feel to burn so easily, after the moisture lifts out of my body to lose weight but not shape.
I put all my belongings on the center of the cowhide in the living room as if to say-- am I really going? For how long? Why?
As the heat deepens I worry about not having enough space, wanting to start closer to the beginning. In a journal full of the chaos of spring, the summer begins to begin not after but rather amidst, among, the pages of spring restrained, pushed back, held, strung, plying the open space. The layering of the summer amasses and things are just bright enough to see, not yet blinding.
In the dusk I almost wanted rain, wanted the sky to close with clouds and the day to tuck in its corners, enclosing nearer until my body encloses itself, my words enclose their meaning.
What is it for the weight of the day to slide off? To dip away into the night like a far and familiar voice. Tonight you’re drawn back to that voice, to follow it through the dark in fellow surrender, to follow it unrepenting until morning. And only then in the familiar light, in the very same light that never once stopped being light, you hear it as your own voice.
How rare, how today the one you want to write for is here. Where else? The one you write for isn’t far off and in body’s still whole.