thriving

My stomach is heavy and my hands are tremulous. I feel as though I could weep rivers onto my chest, but I am too angry to do it. What is to be done? Only to leave, but it is inescapable. This time - I want it to leave me. My internal landscape is musing. I feel fine inside it ... unwelcome, this comes. To say that I don't want this would be a hysterical attenuation, for it is altogether insufferable.

Taken aback into gardens and mossy ponds, I stood wearisome with inquisition locked tightly in my chest. Green had deluged every surface, it built around us like the heavy walls of a haven, and bits of ivory, deep reds, and yellow obtruded eccentrically. A conversation balanced. My dress blew quickly at my legs. Crickets and robins gave every effort to provide wholesome music. It may have been the pause in my speech which granted me the look, or the look which granted me the pause. I felt exhilaration pervading my insides, seeping through my fingertips and neck. I had just seen brilliant blues and contours of the most divine beauty. I wanted suddenly to stay there always, with someone of equal intellect and imagination, irrepressible and irrefutable - no longer alone, nor with company, but in our haven of time and gardens.

Yesterday, on a mountaintop which grew thousands of Christmas trees, I sat deep within the fir amongst a circle of white flowers. A curious doe watched me as she passed. I could hear only the wind.