38
temenos
Dissolution Is That Bent Tree Culled From the Hillside A ceremony in the end and still silence keeps company with your thoughts. There I was. In the middle of stuck. There in the argument time dripped, slowed by the drip bag. It was a tree, that sorrowing. Not just a late-in-the-year-when-the-leaves suggest-change sort of tree; a change which-colors-the-veins-like-a-sugar-maple red sort of tree; but a-chopped-down-cut-up dragged-through-the-roughback of-frozen-pasture-land kind of tree; and it carried the weight, the woodpile of your stare. I stumbled often as the hour’s drag took me by the hand, as it led me looking for a path, for that narrow road to your heart. I stumbled into ceremony and still your silence kept company with the trees standing on the hillside where we tried to decide what would be best with the time we had left.