Beneath this April’s full moon,an inch of snow fell, eclipsingdaffodils and tulips, their buddinggenius. Cherry blossoms wearwhite gowns now, shiveringas they somehow—is it possible?—become more beautiful, as if the cold’s shockrocks their simple, pink world,spurring metamorphosis beyondthe binaries of winter-spring,bleakness-promise, cocoon-wing. They move into a third spacehospitable for another lifemore rare, more raw.
Standing on the streetin the early morning of late autumn,I marvel to see, to my left,over my own backyard, rainand to my right, over my neighbor’s barn,only clear, dry air.As I walk this linedrawn by the ordinary length of asphalt,I think of the theologian who said,God is on the loose now,no longer hidden behindthe parochet, waiting for the high priestto ask for the atonementof his people’s sins.The rain has to clear somewhere.Why not here? Like the road has renta veil that cloaks the fullnessof sight, separates shade from light.
Rivers of Ohio rain cascaded into March, flooding streams and roads, then turned, one evening,into snow, despite the 36 degrees and the way the groundhog, one month before, missed his shadow.So there I was by the road, bending down, picking up my mailbox knocked down once againby snow swept into it, the plow's force strong enough to push a person over, but not reallymassive, the favorite word that morning as the media described the 9.0 quake in Japan, the ensuingtsunami. The axis of the whole world shifted several inches, they told us, shortening the day by 1.8 microseconds,so unlike Joshua's lingering sun. And no horns signaled heroic victory. No moon refused to rise.Only the dark storm of radiation loomed above like a god gone awry, while some kneeled in water, or snow,begging for a word of explanation.
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