Where the world seemed green
We are here again. We are here where the ground is green with edible weeds, again, where the world is wet with salad dew, where crisper drops top miners lettuce, dripping off in heavy drops that catch the light and contain whole worlds of micro-life and reflections of us, upsidedown in miniature and green.
We are here again, on the hill below the small house where we lived without welcome, but without anything else either. We are here, where I put down my book and came outside to see the sun shine green, where the sun shines for a moment between trees and rains and there's the church, down below by the road, painted brown to blur in with the woods. We are here again, and I can hear the utopians talking, the ones who once lived here and the ones who live here now, and I listen, and I can hear how they all thought and think this is the place where the world would be made new. I can hear how it was here, they thought, they thought with exaltation and that tangy taste of euphoria, here where the millennium could be made and would be made with their minds. The river runs by us, forking and falling under the bridge by the road.
We are here again, and you were about to say something but the church opened up all the sudden and someone was shouting and then there was singing, a salvation song to say we're separate from all the other sorry sons of Abel slain, and you were about to say something. But you stopped. You were about to speak, you were, when we were here.
Well here we are again, and I wonder what it was. Do you remember what it was? It was going to strip all this away. You were going to say something, something I should have heard.