By Gary Fincke
Someone tends these graves. Someone carries kelp
And seaweed to vases brimmed with water
We test with fingertips, learning the salt.
So damp, the pages of the brochure curl,
Its history smeared across photographs
Of the dead who are buried beneath us.
And yes, we find ourselves fools for longing,
Following the mulch trail among headstones
Shaped like fish, becoming witnesses who
Wish ourselves mourners, willing to accept
A measure of loss in order to be
Transformed, bodies returning to water,
Scales swallowing our skin until we fuse
Into the elusive beauty of myth,
Light and land abandoned to those in love
With the possibilities for language,
So scattered below the surface, we would
Be impossible enough for worship.
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I had to be out of the house bright and early for an eye doctor appointment so forgive me if I sound bleary. The good news is that my ophthalmologist said my eye infection is about as gone as it looks (still a tiny bit red around the lower lid, but he said last time he saw me he really thought it might need surgery). Paul worked from home again to give his ankle another day to recuperate; we went to the food store together while Adam was working with his friends on theater crew after school.
I had dinner plans with Gblvr and thought she was bringing Wolfshark and Wolfshark's husband, so I brought my husband, but some part of the Wolfshark family wasn't feeling well -- hopefully they are better now! The three of us walked around the mall after eating Indian food, so we all had a chance to stretch our legs and I bought a replacement glass tea mug at Crate & Barrel. Then I came home to retrieve Adam and watch Harry's Law, which is as cracky as Boston Legal. Here is how autumn looked at Kings Dominion over the weekend:
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