All of it: children whistling ryegrass,my husband rubbing my backin his sleep. Consider rubbish the sunclimbing the eye of Delicate Arch,the scent of popped-open coffee.Leave it behind, pleads the scourge-scarred Paul. Lay it down and rise.But even loss is hard to count as loss.This morning frost has leatheredthe nasturtium, but I cannot endureripping the haloes of leaves from their pot.The astilbe, once a lavender mistin my window, burns toward winter,seed heads trembling like the handsof an old charismatic. Maybe in heavenI will remember the March I buriedthose bare roots around the base of the oakand brooded about some sin or anotherholding me fast in the mud, springthe only unseen I could bear to believe.
Roger Thurow on hungry farmers in Africa, Steve Thorngate on the role of government, Ralph Wood on John Henry Newman.
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