Against Gray Light

“We are searching for boats we forgot to build.” ~ Barry Lopez

Rain arrives after two months missing, slow and shy at first, then like a hard cry. Green things begin a long sigh. For all that has turned to straw it is too late. We are a land of lakes, yet so thirsty.

The landscapes of light have changed. Without the balance of water or rain, it has all been too much – too bright – too blazing and brilliant. Earth and skin are scorched.

Now heal.
Now grow.

green
pine and oak
against gray daylight
the release of a thousand
sorrows

To love a pine tree is to love North and all other arrows pointing that way. I drift disembodied over hills and cliffs while also growing roots deeper into the place I am.

Teacher learned this lesson first and now must I. There is no choosing one over the other. There is flying and rooting, nesting and wandering, peace and love – opposites on one hand, marriage on the other.

The day I met him never ended but looking back, I see it never began either; somehow I kept forgetting that part. In this way it is safe to say that I will always wonder the color of his mornings – if he watches bats circle at dusk – if he ever really wanted to walk the trail with me at all . . .

This and other ways to avoid happiness.

In this rain, at this time, I savor sips of tea in the back sun room, writing these lines into the shape of a cure for this life.