In the woods, the stream tables herself over a granite disk that dares to interrupt her rush down the mountain. Silvery fingers are formed at the dropoff point, clutching the rock's edges, slipping, reforming each moment amidst the tumble and flow. Can anyone tell me this is pure physics when I can hear the stream's song with my outer and inner ears? My knees want to bend, I want to trouble the water with my fleshy fingers and clasp the silver ones of the stream, clutch her hands, mercurial and wild. In these moments, I feel you most of all. In these moments I feel I must have pierced the veil between the living and the so-called dead, my face now halfway through the other side, your face pressed close and your lips kissing mine. Nevermind that tears are shimmering down my cheeks; no need to explain the crucifixion of love against loss, the burning in the body, the way that pain makes love with joy, no way to help anyone else. Grief is an involuntary act of ensoulment that benefits the heart of the world. I see my feet moving along this path, sometimes flying, sometimes stopping for a picnic by the river on my way to die and be reborn, and die again and come alive anew. I follow the roadsigns put before me, whether anyone else sees them or not.
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