beaver_seal
It’s not that I have nothing to say, but in a life-imitating-art kind of way, I’ve found the signals down with crossed wires, the copper stolen for crystal meth, or maybe just unacclimated to years of snow and ice. It used to be so easy, the lesson of the genie now lost, if you rub things they are as likely to explode as purr. But for all my gardening, I’ve forgotten how to decode the clues once Autumn’s asters have wilted when wintry flowers are receptive to nocturnal coppicing. I have to wait until she’s asleep to find my words. And it’s terribly staid, this living together for so long and no longer knowing when we’re both ready and willing for what used to tick like hand over hand, in step and on the hour.
Like all boys, I found my share of abandoned watches in grandfatherly drawers, and like all boys I pried the backs with all manner of kitchen implement, butter knife and nail, tried to make sense of cog and wheel, and from that point onward stopped questioning the inner workings, whispering assurances that as long as you keep twisting, the reasoning behind the face doesn’t matter.
The oil of the machine has a different scent after it’s run its course through the moving parts, and there’s something to be said for recycling, but reuse is not a welcome option when longevity is the cardinal concern. I would never regift words given to another, and yet here I find it so difficult to ask the question with only my eyes, the mind willing, but the body wise.
No comments:
Post a Comment