Early March with razor sunshine and shadows spilling — ink on corpses of winter melting to mud. It could have been the first day of spring, or the last day of my life. I had overslept and crumpled the note you gave me for breakfast, the letter explaining what I couldn’t comprehend, not making sense of why you had left; I grabbed a shovel and waning I went…
Out to the hazel wood, because … a fire was in my head — this was my pyre, this was my place; and boulders were breaking my back, my lungs wanted to swell with water… but the rivers were dry.
Paths had faded since last we went here, still I came to the place where we had lain, gazing at clouds.
The soil was still frozen, so my grave had to be shallow.
I began digging.
Prosery today at dVerse, Kim hosts and we should weave prose of 144 words including the line:
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head’.
The lines are taken from ‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’ by Yeats.
February 15, 2021