From last September, what I can remember:
a tall white pine hard by, solid, with runneled,
piecemeal bark. Tan needles in thick sheaves
on the ground, a turpentinish mat. It’s odd:
mere accident, once put in words, feels fuller
and opens on more room than that day’s facts—
accidents in essence sapped of meaning,
when nothing said what was the matter. Now,
and only now, warm pixels swarm and focus:
Adirondack chair. Blue shirt. The writer reading.
Sparkling water to ease thoughts through a treatise
on Bergson, the volume’s binding soft gray green….
In theory, reason’s cleansing salt might heal
internal injury; but blunt misgivings
undermined any plan to give up minding,
just as they underline this hindered ache to…
embody so that psyche takes on substance.
Book closed, inhale, stand up. And for no clear-cut
reason touch the pine’s tough bark. And look,
it’s oozing drops of resin. Sticky, thicker
than honey, tree blood smears my hand—the right,
it would be. Irony your default setting,
you’d say, “It smells like pine-tree essence room scent.”
Well. Maybe salty water will get it off.