August 14, 2012
Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round
in another form. The child weaned from mother's milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.
God's joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into a flowerbed.
As a rose, up from the ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open...
Talking with Kay, I realize that seasons provide the anchor for my sense of time; 3 months ago is abstract, but "late Spring" means something.
Despite me not digging New England winter, this might make me feel better about not having to moved to San Diego or wherever; I've always given lip service to "it's good to have distinct Seasons" but maybe it's more crucial than I realized.