February 12, 2014 A VAPOR OF ABSENCE

 Was it a week ago we wept in the bathtub,Wept on the couch?More weeping at the dinner table, lookingNot at, but into each other;The mystery of animal hairs quiveringAt the sniff. No weeping at JFK,Just the body briefly sobbing and thenThe containment of solitude andGoing forward into that.Of waking to beauty and silence, the crestStill crouching there on the mat of the valleyThe mist that trails down the stairsTo the breakfast table, a vapor of absenceThat never actually touches the skin butWeaves around the body and through the dayAs if unpicking swaths of stiches from a well-wornTapestry. Solitude. The familiar experienceOf self; detached, yet fully present.The relief of remembering there is nothing leftTo prove, no need, no-one to impress, but ratherLet the self become impressed with time andSpace; light, scale and proportion.The relevance of self in accordance with theSlightest breeze, the shivering leaf. I coverMy French dictionary in linen and pick thymeFor the table. The fireplace is one of manyI have dreamed of all my life.After four weeks of busy business inThe Big City, I settle with easeInto the immediacy of this small world;The house, the boulangerie,Picking through stalls At Isle Sur La Sourge.A whole morning in bed until noon; a longWalk, winding up to the top of the village,The heart arguing with flights of stone stairs;Hundreds of upward steps; heartfelt, every one.And then the gentle loping down the slopes andLanes, peeking over mossy walls as I have doneSince childhood. And so, back to the house.Supper soon, soup and salad and the eveningSlides swiftly into the sheath of night. All photos Maggie Barrett