This blog contains 1000 posts. Posting to Blogger with such a large archive has become unwieldy. Also, your blogista, who is sewing a kesa, is not writing much at present. She has ceased adding new posts. Still-active links are here.

Thursday, October 12, 2000



As the rains return again, she notes, almost
in passing, how her love for her remains, and
how darkness, and wind, and sorry days of

work and worry cannot shake it. We are not
built to last, and we know that. Some speak of life
as if it were stark tragedy alone, a

trudging from diaper to death bed, doomed
because end it must. Others try, by seeking
comedic relief, to put such gloom aside,

assuming that to live brightly today will,
somehow, pay for the pain of barely living
later, when last years have but begun.

Truth place somewhere between. She would,
if the gods permitted, lose herself in her eyes
every day of forever, but knowing this

will end, and relatively soon, makes her not
over-sad, nor will she lie to herself, or
her, with thoughtless laughter; rather it makes her

carefully love her, deeply as she does now,
breathing her name in, breathing it out, like prayer.


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