“What is it you hope for?” she asked. We were talking about love, how a story
had dismantled these last weeks, and whether there was still a chance,
the winter warm enough to ground the roots again. I saw the slight worry
in her face, and though I knew enough about the changing weather of romance
to find peace in the conclusion, I hadn’t thought of what lay further underneath,
the narrative my heart was writing, the soul-poem of my deepest yearning.
My mind went blank. The words locked up behind my teeth.
The present tense is exactly that, taut with so much NOW. But what was burning
to be born? What seedling wish was carrying the plot? The question opened like a book.
It’s hard enough to close your eyes, but tougher still to look.