love letter to spring (an excerpt)

"yesterday i felt you for the first time–a love returned from the sea or the Far East or imprisonment–from somewhere i could not find you. every year i endure your absence and pray for your safe return..."


Wassily Kandinsky, fell in love with the voice of a telephone operator. He insisted on meeting her and went to dinner with her that same night. They were together for a time. I have always been impressed by the single-mindedness of that act and attitude–wondering if it is a necessity to becoming a great artist, and if I have it. 


Places I Would Like to Travel to:
The Panamanian Jungle


This winter I had reason late in the game to break my customary hibernation and enter the season daily. I started to see the previously infernal winter with opening eyes. It was the earth speaking to me, in the cold white air, so different morning to morning, and even the way the ground pressed back against my footfall seemed to show how a season that seems to set the earth to rest is in actuality, very dynamic. Snow curving upon snow with the long lilac shadows of trees.

I could tell what the weather had been at night from that first step into the snow in the morning, and even what it would be like later. An alert nose, knew the exact temperature. It was like gradually uncovering the core of a strong but shy person.

Ice is a memory. Ice is the memory of warmth, of snow that melts and then hardens. And haven't we all at a time likewise grown ice in our hearts over love that melted us and then froze in neglect? These are the connections my brain makes for better or worse when I look out across the river this evening freed of its winter skin with the ice floes bobbing in the current a memory of colder times.

half moon

which today had, much brightness in a crystal sapphire night. last week i was trying to talk to the moon in italian, my grammar coming, my syntax not there yet. moths (la falena) are flying (vola!) to your infernal porchlight (la luce) looking for the light of the moon (la luce della la luna). it doesn't make any sense whatsoever, why want the moon cool and absolutely untouchable? so now la falena finds the wing searing death. all these lamps adding tragedy when before there was only the unobtainable to beat yourself against.


“… the lost combs year
after year grow heavier with honey.
And the sweetness has more and more
acutely the taste of that wildness.”

— Jack Gilbert,  excerpt from “Older Women,” The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992 (Alfred A. Knopf, 1995)


Insect carrying a
Resonance of
Electricity–on and off on and off
Fly invisible by day by night
Lightning bug
Years ago they dotted my child-nights.


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