“Leaving no one and nothing behind. The greater love.”

I haven’t stopped trying, but I don’t know if I could. Spurts of intention alternate with bouts of helplessness. And so I too manage with the laundry, the flotsam left in the wake of daily tidal pools, hurricanes, the exhausting dance of whirlwinds. This is a book of commonplace hours. No one is a saint, or everyone is a saint: the homeless man sprawled on a park bench, drab duffel bag for a pillow; the teenage boys laughing on the street corner, the glow from cigarettes in cupped hands haloing their faces like in a fresco. I too remind myself of the work I need to finish. I don’t believe it was only forty days in the desert. Night comes on, unfurling its stole of saffrons and purples. Is that the order to which we must ascend? Coming in, unlatching the gate, sometimes it takes so little to send the arrow flying: tonight, for instance— one tiny bud of wild garlic, precarious on its stalk.

 

In response to cold mountain (48) (49).

2 Comments


  1. Flat against the pillows, I’m on the verge of drifting into a doze, but your words are tugging penny-thoughts out of the pool of my Percocet-laced lassitude. The urge to hoard love for fear of squandering it rubs against the sandscapes of split-open hourglasses — the shining shown-and-told of generosity returned and amplified. The stove waits to be washed, the towels wait to be folded, and I tell them all that I need a moment longer with you — you who were not expecting me at all, but this is what happens when you open your garden gate: tendrils of garlic catch at my hair — not as insistently as a trap, but still, a momentary clinging, an echo of how we tap the shoulders of strangers we almost recognize.

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  2. “The stove waits to be washed, the towels wait to be folded, and I tell them all that I need a moment longer with you — you who were not expecting me at all, but this is what happens when you open your garden gate…” Peg, this is beautiful. Thank you.

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