verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Tucked In

I had a date with Tucker today.  We go way back, for miles and for ever.  We don't see each other much and don't need to. Our love affair is grander than that. Today he met me at the door, and we quietly rolled into each other's arms.

Eyes. Remembrance. Bliss.

Together and side by side, we walk in a place where the seasons share this secret of ours. The path is lined with wild brush wearing trinkets of cardinal and chickadee and jay. Tangled vines mingle with rooted rock.  Tall reeds broken by the weight of snow emerge with candor and indifference. Trees reach way beyond to wrap their limbs into the sunward sky, nestling recent snow that had needed perch.  An old barn leans towards the ground, its haunting windows sag as if to say please, let me be...

It feels like the loneliness of winter. But here on this path, she quietly reveals herself. Winter, with all his gravity, can't suppress her buoyancy. You can feel her wisps in the air and sky. And she dances among those birds.  She trickles water along the surface of his skin, promising him more.  She's not far from him, and he knows it.  He waits now.

Together and side by side, spring melts into her beloved winter, converging the certainty and translucence of their union.  Tucker and I recognize this.  We tuck each other in at the door and say nothing.  No need.  No, need. I'll be back, and he'll wait.

Eyes. Remembrance. Bliss.

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