I sent her a spoon, Cathedral windows, carved into cherry wood and they were the portal to son the almond corridor and in that week, she in The Hague sees a December blooming that is miracle with no other explanation than that of pink Love unwrapped and given. And the dreams and memories, and the memories of dreams in rolled reams that have gone lastly unwinding, yet the shutter still spins?
I have shut many doors and shuttered many windows and yet her mention of only your first initial, mutual with Christ and our foray into Olney and such collections as your recorded laugh that long-ago day, how a small dessert spoon could be used to plow through mountains of real estate and still I wonder, what was the sentiment of such?
I weep and that is because I love you so in those long lost days when it seemed I knew you and every seed spilled, every heavy leaden apple bough and there were legions of angles watching, or so I thought. But now when my heart spins to that long hauled, halled corridor I see not the reflected eternity of mirrors, the two of us in every shinky, shining One, instead, my heart shatters, that rock you pitched, the shock of splitting glass, the stone passes and smashes through each, or is stuck on repeat, indefinite the violence ricocheted, bullet-blasting through each and every glassed pain, an eternal line of vandalism that keeps ticking inside of me even if I’ve latched the cuckoo clock doors, steadied the cold and heavy, gold pine cones on their long chained lines, have walked out of that hallowed space we lived in with a brave mash of mask on my face.
Every nine seconds or so, the heft, the deigning splinter and drop, the cutting pieces of your sworded promise to open every window within restarts. I suppose to let in burning sun and icy wind to purify this gray building of mine?
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