Some pleasures perhaps await reminiscence. How I will miss someday the simple hours of sitting on the dock in the night with Obie asleep in the cottage above me and the music of the spheres overhead.
Evening star arises reflected on the water, streak of shooting stars in the ripple. It is tempting to describe the Milky Way as a smear across the sky and yet there is more design to it, a sense that the splay of cloudy light is some familiar place, a gaseous stream in which we have walked and will, and where my mother does.
“It’s time for Mrs. White’s party,” was how, when they were children, Bess’s father used to say of sleep.
And yet I sit and wait for something, time to pass, or the exact details of something come.