I do not have the heart to write this morning, I am being pulled to other, more profound things. I sit at Fair Haven as I will now do until my parting, thinking Christ, tall grass, death and love, and my lover’s softness. Life often comes stark, no business to dull us, just me and life, great mysteries, and the greening, living earth. I sat with the dying yesterday, held his warm hand as he talked resigning himself to his end. I left Union yesterday, the beginning of the summer which will herald our separation forever. The grass here is twelve inches, the river high, and the trees in full spring bloom. Betty has just awakened to a reborn lover. I am juxtaposed between endings and exuberant beginnings, a heart sincerely engaged with a body old. Nature will not be bound. Grass and clover and trees will grow, men will be resurrected from the dead and I have no heart to write. Life is too meaningful to be lesser than with my words.
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| Our seed. |
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