live madly

the sun will stand as your best man and whistle when you have found the courage to marry forgiveness when you have found the courage to marry Love.

He called eel grass what she called seaweed. He insulated their house with it. She was interested in the transparence of her skin. He walled the bathroom with barn-siding, he built the couch with wood he had chopped. She, a friend once said, was a calligrapher of the dark. He dug a root cellar to store vegetables. He built a shack for his ducks. Once, while asleep, he said 'the half-shut eye of the moon.' She spoke about the possible precision of doubt. He knew when the wind changed what weather it would bring. She baked bread, made jam from sugar berries, kept a notebook with what she called little collections of her breath. He said the angle the nail goes in is crucial. She fed the ducks, called them her sentient beings. She wondered how one becomes a casualty of desire. He said a tin roof in summer sends back the sun’s heat. She made wine from dandelions. She once wrote in her notebook 'the ordinary loveliness of this world.' He built a bookcase for her books. They took long walks.

Our whole lives are flashing before our eyes