Been doing some landscaping in the backyard. Not finished, evident the two bags of mulch resting peacefully by the wooden fence and in the far corner a solitary bag of decorative rocks, still as heavy in my mind as they were to my back. We are making progress, the thought itching like some ancient ethic unscratched, as I survey the rake and the hoe, leaning against the garage door as if on break; and I wonder what they are whispering as I sit in my robe, coffee in hand, thinking how lonely, even churchyard cold this yard is going to seem when the mulch is gone and the rocks laid to peace and the rake and hoe move on to other jobs. And I wonder too, why I love the youth of a project and fear the sententious song of completion, why I love the messiness of construction yet dread the stillness, the museum like deadness, of a goal reached.
2 comments:
It is the great sensualist in you. :-)
A story that never ends, books that are never finished, moments that are remembered and relived endlessly, eyes that meet, the moment before the lips touch, expectation, promise, the perfect fault that reveals the true shades of perfection, attainable (again promise), and above all the ability to see every nuance and the desire to experience each completely. Love this for the same reasons I love you. It is wonderfully, entirely enchanting.
Thank you my dearest Sunshine. I was just sitting on my swing in the backyard, in my robe, naked underneath, enjoying my black coffee without sugar in my off-white cup with a slight lip, and looking over the work done and the work to be done. So I wrote about it. :-D
Now, if you had been there, with me, on that swing, as I sat with my robe and nothing else underneath, the poem would have been a little different. ;-)
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