The Dead Ones
“What’s left? What colors, which root systems? My knees are wet, after a day of gardening, & hours spent feeling the pulse of every living thing that is going to sleep. We clip, and tug, and pull and rake. Moving thru different quadrants of the yard, feeling in our bones the gifts of the four directions: following sun, enduring shadow, honoring what we have, uncomplaining. An ideal co-worker laughs as we cut into chunks of ice, neatly set within a Japanese Knotweed stem. A few irregular cubes drop out. Were it time for a cocktail, I’d stop everything and call for lawn chairs. But this is a deeper reveal. Not coddled by time on our hands, nor anyone’s leisure. On the arc of autumn’s plot, we’re on the down side, and plunging, nearly blind with denial, and refusal. You know the type. They don’t get their firewood, until the only option is to buy it wet. I know, I know. i really do. I’ve been on every side of this argument. Chastised, applauded, manipulated by those who handle a chain saw until I felt cheapened by it. Even, betrayed. So I try to keep it simpler, now. Buy it at inflated prices when you have to, without flinching. Try to get it a year ahead, when life seems rich. Stack it by yourself in the worst kind of weather, which, in the end, will keep you sane. Shut off the naysayers and just move it as many times as you have to. Health is about doing this and other stuff, when maybe you don’t want to. It was frosty this morning, and I realized how much I hate when a phone is my flashlight. Oh god, it’s lame. To go to the mailbox, under so many stars, thinking that’s the only thing you have to light the way. But what I wanted to say, is that I woke in the night, and paused with profound words on my heart. I wanted to write them down, because I knew I’d forget. And I did. Flooding back to me, on the river ride back along Route 107 tonight, were the words I’d left behind, but without the words. I have so many scenarios of lost wisdom that will never be recovered. You’ll have to accept the limping, scatter-shot version of who I am. You’ll probably never get what I meant, and never feel what I wanted you to feel. In the car, driving to a gig, or on the precipice of our vital moments, when we supposed no one could ever come between us. But they did. Everyone came between us. Every, single, time. I still fly on wings thru the dark valleys, however, wondering about the dead ones, who loved me. About the dead ones, who seemed more familiar with what is right about me, with them, then you ever thought was, with you. Sorry about that. Dang, such a waste of time. Why does God put us thru so many wringers, when all we ever wanted was to hop off the treadmill called “faking it”?”