March 10

Snow driving down all morning, giving way to piercing blue sky to the East & gradual, undulating cloud to the West. Here, still. How many things I await, spurs for which I reach just beyond my grasp. So many of the details of action rust over so quickly, & the machine growls & groans, idle where it would want of moving. A ghost in its cockpit. Fan flame for steam, & turn, engine, turn, to take us willing to the next version of our lives. How I can’t leave her behind in the barn’s capacious cold, & how she oscillates in her plan. How I hunt for a car. How I think now to wait on Alaska, to hole up until the thesis is done in some cabin in the lower 48 & head north after the wedding. Or fly to Denver to empty our storage area. Or walk the PCT. Or to head straight to the Kenai. & over & again. How life stands gaping open, an eye through a wound, a hand laying aside its sutures. Move along then, it says, & I’ll sew then. My head here a soldered tin shed in which conjecture reverberates loud & incessant. A shame we need to buttress our wills, write the preludes of their executions, lay their diaphanous groundworks if they are to prove most generative, storing away pregnant moments for some vague unveiling in some vague future. To feel decidedly stuck & completely free at one & the same moment, & live in it, & let it be. & wait. & wait.

Comments

Bree said…
If you make it out this way, stay with us:) Willa can stay too.
March 15, 2009 at 6:28 PM
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