I am thinking of my sister here, how hard this lately is and how hard to say the right words about love, what it means, how to get it and how to get it and so on. I am packing up all the Mary Oliver and Anais Nin I can. I am reminding her, reminding me, reminding all the good architects of all the good houses for birds that it's not all for the birds. But some days, Chickadees.
Roberta Flack singing The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. The rain pouring hard outside. The Zelda room's good memories, if achey. The ginger-green tea I drank on the way back from the gym (in the rain) and the so many "me-toos" we kiss goodbye when we lose someone.
Oh Sister, I wish I could band-aid this for you. I am full of missings and musings but the world does "offer itself up to your imagination" and that makes everything possible once you pull anchor and sail.
ELEGY FOR THE UNSAID
after Neruda
In this mouth I gather darkness, an aria,
rosewater tongue, tympanic bone,
a poem more quiet than quietness,
a bronze song, something undone, salvia,
a crushed butterfly.
It is the blood on a light bulb, the seventh sadness,
a fluctuation that closes oceans and eyes.
The vermilion and solitary luminary
shimmies and singes the feathers of the aviary.
Moon, the clock's word, dear mother, ruin, rain.
Simone Muench
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