maybe

Why do I do this? Sometimes because of being pressed into it. Moretimes because I need to say something that can only be said by moving the fingers, though in the space that is both time and distance between brain and fingers, something slips, is lost. As with the pulpit, in the space between lips and printed, or blogged, page, something goes missing. Not that fault must be set, it's natural, workings of Nature.



My home, 7H, that honestly I expected never again to inhabit, is coming back together, slowly but nevertheless. Nearly a year now, instead of months, it may be weeks. Or instead of weeks, maybe days. Where never becomes maybe. It may be better, 7H may be better, and my school may be better, and in someone else's lifetime my town may be better; but Nature does not let the clock be reset to zero, to drive under the canopy of trees, or the Cove School windows be those I worked on with Bill twenty years ago. Or my trust in Nature return. 

How to get the best of Nature when Nature seems determined to have the best of us, to wreak vengeance on us for what we have done and do, to remind us that we indeed are nothing more than part of Nature, its dust. Nature was here first, and will be here last. And no doubt will be relieved, even rejoice.

T