the tender colour of snow illuminated by the rising sun---i wish love to be so gentle, so gracious.
how could we not improve ourselves? this world so generous in beauty, we so delicate, and yet...
the inevitability of betrayal: the only question being, of ourselves or the other?
she sinks to sleep as into a drug, the only place of safety. here alone is she free to be herself. he watches, left behind, frustrated possession knotting his veins.
our wants get the better of us. hungry doves with sharpened beaks.
i desired nothing more grand than to care for those i love. that was my sole or greatest talent, and i gave everything to do it well. it was the one thing not wanted.
pack my heart away in a box cushioned with ashes, send it book rate someplace i shall never see it again.
i, coiled like a vixen in a mossy den. you, coiled like a snake hidden in dead leaves.
love is not really arrow-like. more like a blunderbuss: with much care you prepare the little missiles, with their nest of powder and wadding, strike a spark, and it knocks you down. you have a bruised shoulder and probably missed anyway, were the target as big as a barn.
when your baby is in your arms, and your realise never have you loved like this, this small being you will defend to the last drop of blood, she is everything. nothing and no one can ever be this dear. this will never change, even when you are forced to face the inability to defend her against something. the rage and grief, like the love, are eternal.
at some point, death becomes a lover, too, if we are not distracted.
i think we tear up at weddings because we want so terribly for it to go well for them. and know how improbable, how they will break against the rocks of each other and of life.
this unbecoming passion that still, despite it all, occasionally reminds me that i am alive...what am i meant to do with it?
pouring tea, setting out broken biscuits that are all you have, making space for tears or laughter---tangible love offered without expectation or pretense or preparation. granny love, friend love.
the cat curled in the lap, the dog resting by your side, reminders of what faithful means. the only really unconditional love, perhaps.
i love to see really old people holding hands, because it's like seeing a unicorn. it hurts and it is wondrous. such devotion---not for me, maybe, but it exists, and i marvel.
tell me what and who you love and i will tell you who and what you are. i am old enough to do that now, and people should listen when old women speak of love and other broken things.
i remember a small girl, spinning and spinning in the yard, in love with trees and the moon and life itself. surely she is still in there, somewhere? there are echoes, faint as the sound of butterfly wings, at odd moments. what did she know that i have forgotten?
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