Filed under Prose

She asks: “What possibility are you living into?” And I answer:

Clean, cool early morning air, perfumed with mist off the river that evanesces as sunlight floods fields and forests alike, a cup of coffee stirred randomly by firm handshakes and embraces of cherished neighbors and friends passing in front of the house on their way to buy bread or head off for work in close-by, never distant, places. Later, friendly words with passing visitors, finding themselves in a place too beautiful to be anything but amicable. The writing of poetry that must be or it will burst this fragile vessel. The ringing of church bells, bringing a reminder to all for miles around that time has once again passed sufficiently for the noonday meal to be shared (and one always leaves an empty place setting for the random guest who may arrive, as the custom is). A mixture of hard work in the garden, exhilarating bike rides along roads that pass, now a castle, now a cool forest, now a tow-headed field, and long, hot, sweaty marches of satisfying kilometers to destinations that always are their own starting point, aided by a walking stick, maps, and a compass (scratch that, an advanced GPS device… one doesn’t want to be lost forever). Time again to write during the afternoon heat under the cloistered outdoor patio, where one can pause to listen to the murmured conversation of passers-by while inhaling deeply of the honeysuckle vine and jasmine that everyone stops to admire, accompanied by orchestral notes from chimes playing in the light breezes, and operatic birds singing raucously of their truth. Then evening and libations shared with beloved friends, happy sounds echoing amidst clinks of glasses and sudden laughter, as dinner is prepared. Long, happy conversation, which has its own melody created from the harmony that only shared happiness can bring, then the meal whose end only comes in the deep, deep night because food is only the smallest part of a meal. Then music perhaps, dancing and song, exhausted bodies twirled for one last expression of love, and all that can arrive. Finally sweet, sweet pillow hugs, as bodies, worn well this day, settle into familiar spaces, and sheers wave in the evening breeze that is entering unbidden, but always welcome, through the balcony doors. The air, echoing with occasional distant footsteps in the street below, becoming nightly, hinting of deep woods, animals out on their own adventures, and deep happy dreams accompanied by helpful guiding spirits, all the while locked in an eternal embrace together, as if death will never claim us as its own.

And then to do it over again when the Sun chases that night away the next morning.

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