In Which I Ask Too Many Questions, or Circles & Arcs

Every day is a return to start. Every day is the turning of another circle, so long or just so arced. The Earth spins each day and skips onward about the Sun, as we all—from Sun to maligned Pluto—inscribe some path so far indeterminate in shape through the stars.

You shared this song with me (and he with you?) and now I shared this song with her and here we are another year later or some twenty-five days later. Who will be listening to this melody in another year? Will the notes describe any lines between any hearts, however tangled, yours or mine or hers? Better that I abandon this song entirely, and go searching for a new song to sing into a new heart?

How long along this arc of life will I have memory of you and fennel? The corner never comes until I have stopped awaiting it. Carrots, dirt, wine, a café, a tree on a block in our neighborhood: all these (however ephemeral) materialities grow and root in my connections and memories with you and with you and you and you. I refuse to cast aside cherry pits but I would love to forget the smell behind your ear, evening air and mischief.

Would that I could see myself unfolding and changing along this arc of life, forward and backward. Would that I could fully grasp who I am and was and will be and so trust in the utility of these memories, lovely and painful, given and taken. I must hope and trust and keep singing along to life.