Time is a color-shifting jelly. They move through it slowly, achieving new positions in which they stay suspended until another change is forced. He answers certain knocks at the door and certain phone calls. He addresses what he can address, and then breaststrokes his way back to her.
When it was spring, we
pulled crawdads and salamanders
out of creek beds we dammed
with rocks and leaves,
thick as the swallow’s nest
in the corner of the shed.
The facts I gradually discovered about the human survivors who feed us all have an element of surprise, tinged with wariness about the future. What might once have seemed alien in their way of being came to seem special, all too rare, precious, endangered.
She cried and I painted. And when I was finished,
she wiped that still-wet hand on my pants, left
streaks of drying varnish stinking the air.
Held her hand toward me. Said, again. Again.
Presumably, we’d all once found something magic in making art—why else were we taking this class? Yet no one ever described the joy they felt in witnessing something beautiful. All of Elliott’s prints were beautiful. It was as simple as that.