She certainly saw why her father had called the contents of the old box a feminine legacy. Were these actual people in the story on the green pages? Were any of them? Were the places real? Any of them? And the language? What about it?
On her lap sat her brass hearing trumpet. The cousin explained that the old woman had tried hearing aids but with no success.
From blank whiteness, you began a painting for him. Strong, large, raw, unplanned strokes.
Eagle, golden-featherer, high in the winter’s fog, recognizing the boy, turning . . .
Handsome face, haunted eyes, seer’s eyes . . .
Who travels the Sky Train today? Outlaw, lover, pilgrim, composer.
When you speak with me, you hear the stories of the spheres,
The stories are living and breathing. The stories are in dreams.
. . .I was always young. Demure, but sprightly, ready to dance gaily if the fifes and drums, or the fiddle struck up a springtime dance. . . .