He spoke to you in blue, in the long call of light from the top of a Tuscan hill. Your hand answered, the quick sketch of a girl taking shape before you knew she was you, head uplifted, her angelful eyes sure of what they see: being bodied true as the stilled wings, the beatified sky. What words might have passed have passed as air sighed by the soul in the act of rapture. Now there is only ochre and thin-skinned cream, struck gold against the garden’s sudden green, forever as present as it once seemed, her hands crossed soft against her hidden fear and angel’s breath still warm within your ear.
It’s distracting, everything’s changing wherever I look; an electric blue patch of squill nearly makes me crash, and all the twigs are, suddenly, beaded with leaf buds, while the yellowness of the willows is brightening hourly. I park so I can watch, I jump out of the car and dance along, I’m beaming like a lunatic, and really, you’d think I’d be used to it by now, I’ve seen it happening over fifty times in many different places; I should know that as soon as these words are written, they’ll be old; the leaf buds will be emerald. You’d think I’d give up trying to catch the delicate insinuation of the air, which can’t be caught; the words collapse, they tumble and mesh together breezily interlaced in a tangle of green, the yellow caravel entirely madrigal, and every jonquil ravishment squeezed fresh.
The first ever Academy Award for Best Picture was given in 1929 to Wings, a World War I aviation drama full of groundbreaking aerial sequences. People flocked to see the film largely because they longed to feel what it might be like to fly.
Behind us, the channel half-clogged by bullhead lilies slips back into the smoke of yellow tamaracks clouding the shore and we glide on the silk of a dream so deep, herring break the surface from eighty feet below.
I am this hand skimming the water. I am these eyes dazzled by light.
I am you whom I loved before the seas were parted.
Cemetery crowding, especially in large cities or among religious groups that forbid cremation, is becoming a problem worldwide, forcing some creative solutions. Residents of Mexico City must exhume and remove their relatives’ remains after a number of years. A Tower for the Dead project is in the works there: it will include a vertical necropolis along with a subterranean complex 820 feet deep. A simpler solution is to stack graves on top of each other and to share tombstones. Other options being considered are stacking the dead above the ground in niches built into a wall or housing the dead in buildings with each floor resembling a traditional cemetery (AP).