The flow of time is always cruel. – Zelda, Ocarina of Time

If I were an ocean, I’d part. Time arts the many, seawaves tending to fall (and no one hears it). Grief parches, babblebrain topics again-and-again the one-who-when — if I stay frozen, maybe the earth will still. Gristlesift hot cast iron, what enchants and what entails (thingking to herself). I barelybarely, what semantics do I? To say the unspeakable.

Silence — rememberfirst the guardian-angels, infinite cycles of time planting-and-reaping histories plural. Soil waters the sky, sky breathes the soil; signs myth signs as myths. Death is permanent. (I don’t know how to speak about funerals). What happens — anamnesis holymumbling emanations, memories mattering the one. The one who matters. The two who matter. The three.

Somatic terrorwave engulfs the peninsula of good mourning. I barely hymn (the ghost will always him). I am your granddaughter. Gold twilights the honeydew evening lightninbugs mimicking the sun. To who the ground belongs to, to belonging that grounds. I can never talk to my Nana again. I’ll talk to the magnolia.

All streams flow to the sea,
    but the sea is never full;
    to the place where the rivers flow,
    there they continue to flow. - Ecclesiastes 1.7 (CEB)

Image: The Mulberry Tree by Henry Herbert La Thangue (n.d.)