Sometimes I try my hand at at bit of poetry...
Like the settling of dust
I loved you slowly.
A silent affair,
you grew quietly, delicately--
until you were gone.
And the bare, gleaming surface of my affection
stood naked and robbed of something…
I can’t decide what the last word should be:
It has to be something that contrasts with the feathery and light quality of dust. Time will tell. Maybe it will come to me on a late night trip to the grocery store, or in the middle of an important phone call.
These music box conversations
leave me spinning.
The burying of you will not be quiet or easy.
I like Annie Dillard. She writes so eloquently:
"These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you're lost in the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing."
Waking up--such an ambiguous moment between sleeping and that first step.