Vermont – for Rilke

Tell me again about that clearing in the woods where she kissed you for the first time. Immortals – angels – never tire of those stories. That is love, isn’t it? That image, that memory? Clothed ineradicably in self and time when the caustic is removed. What we don’t have. It is your story, not ours – tell it again, while you can, to those of us removed from all actuality or potentiality except in essence. We muses long to cry once more forever as you have. Not like you, because of the loss, in time, but for the gift of its happening after all.

– Christian Hatfield, Durango