Sunday

Sit, sat, sitting, being, the garden and I and a book. It makes me think how – perfect – this transaction, this offering is – this presumption that these words on this page were made for this moment and me. Though the author does not know my garden, they do not know the way the washing line never gets light til right in the corner of the day, the way the conservatory next door peaks, just over, the fence and the way my lemon balm crazy grows in the corner, the author knows this: their book will be read. And the moment, the reading, that point when I look at their crafted chiselled, sobbed over words, that moment is – will – always happen. And that is a wonder to me. A book will always be read – it finds people – it holds people to it – you are married – lovers – friends for that period. It is wed to you and your thoughts and your life. It fits, it fits with you and beside you and around you and in you. It fits in your space. It fits – here, it fits where the grass is too long and the verbena has over run. It fits. It always, always fits. 

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