Saw this one coming a mile off.
The “Op. posth.” Dream Songs have been fun and delightfully (more or less) ridiculous
(more or less) on one hand, and there was the set-up of a very good one, a
serious poem, I thought. But their novelty has run its course, decayed, you
might say, and it’s time to get this thing moving again. Not much longer. It’ll
come. I declare a day off from Henry today, from puzzling poetry, and
especially from that creepy voice emanating in dreamlike paradox from a
moldering corpse in a coffin six feet under the muffling Earth. Henry is making
his way back.
In the meantime, life for me goes
on in fairly good form. There was a hint of spring in the air last week, but
last night got below 20°F and we had a fire going. Probably
the last one of the season. Fires bring a spark of extra life to the house; it’s
such a wonderful and strange phenomenon. When I’m finally dead, and sure that
it’s time to say so-long, I’ll miss food and wine, fire, books and friendly
people, cats and horses, rivers with fish, and the smell of trees and rain the
most. I met somebody last summer who has developed a long, detailed and unambiguous
belief in an afterlife and frequent reincarnation, complete with gatherings of
spirits who line up and yell at her. So maybe you never have to say permanent good
bye, but I’m an entrenched agnostic on that. If she says so. Whatever. In the
meantime, just in case we only get one shot at it, it’s time to buy my fishing
license, and I want to make sure the cabernets in my rack are decent ones, and
opening day for the Reds is right around the corner. Oh, and the bluebells are
shooting up. They don’t just sprout, get established and them mosey around to a
delicate flower or two, no, these babies start blooming underground, so when
they hit the air it’s a crowd of opening buds, petals to the wind ASAP. You
have to admire that kind of enthusiasm in a plant.
No comments:
Post a Comment