Friends disappear into darkness, vanish like smoke into
bright air. Mysteries descend like snowflakes and collect into drifts
six feet high — then melt without a trace.
are times when I think the ocean offers answers to unanswerable
Where do virtue and goodness go when they're lost — where
do they come from in the first place, so preposterous and inconvenient?
Où sont-elles, Vierge Souvraine — les neiges d'antan . . . les vagues d'hier soir?
At other times I think the ocean only offers an accompaniment to all
this — no answers, only consolation, a consolation that is itself
Be quiet anyway, and listen . . .
There will be no new posts for the next
week or two, then some exciting news. Until then, enjoy the
archives and be assured that I remain . . .
a sus pies,