waterpath

I loved you, so I constructed
a riverbed of stones and broken glass.
I built it so we could walk unhindered among the
reflected sunlight and under waxy cottonwood leaves.
As you see, the limbs tremble in the breeze. The sun
glints from veined leaf, water-worn stone, and fragments of colored bottles.
We walk hand in hand. The air is right, the light is the same. Our hearts breathe
together. All life, all memories, come unbidden and unfold before us. What we were
answers to who we are. These images pass on either side, like a grove of planted trees.
We move through and continue. We reach a spot beyond which the riverbed continues but
its form is foreign to me. I did not build it, and do not know its lay. The stones and the glass
are here. And the leaves, too, in their greenness.

this morning

The weeks just keep on sailing by. It's like someone turned on a faucet and left it running, not full-blast but just a steady flow.

Maybe I got stuck. Kinda like when a floating leaf or branch gets pulled into an eddy along the shore of a swift stream and either spins endlessly or becomes entangled in some roots from the bank or a fallen limb.

conturbat

[The scene is a small living-room with the sunlight of late afternoon falling through the paned glass of windows. It is late winter, and the winds of a cold front blow against the house. A figure is seen sitting in an armchair.]

I need another beer if I'm gonna write anything here today.

[The figure rises from the chair, walks to a table and retrieves a beer.]

I'm kinda sad right now. You know, it's that kind of sadness that I think there's some German word for, or something like that. I don't know. Probably not the best time to drink beer. I rarely drink these days, which is good I suppose. For a short while I tried drinking to ease the pain I have in my leg and foot. It mildly helped, but I really, really dislike being hungover. It feels like a waste of existence. And I get semi-hungover very easily these days. So, I don't drink much.

Nice little caveat there. Speaking of Latin, I just recently encountered the Latin phrase that means "I am disturbed by the fear of death." I read a translation and collation of the Epic of Gilgamesh recently. It's really, really good. In the introduction to this particular version, the Latin phrase is mentioned as a sort of theme to the epic. And it is. A theme of the epic, I mean. The fear of death disturbs me. I mentioned that to someone and they asked "whose--their own or someone else's?" I guess that's a pretty good question.

[The sound of vehicles on the street outside can be heard. A light has been switched on inside the house. The sun is not yet down.]