In a radio adaptation of Robert McFarlane’s book Landmarks he wrote of the ‘list poets’. I’d never heard of them. When I can’t write I write lists. Sometimes I sew them. Lists of things I listen to when I sew. My working soundscape.
We were both born into harsh winters, he and I. We are so close, so connected. My love, my shaman, my guide, my confidante, my steadiness.
We sat with my back resting against his shoulder and talked. I looked at the sun over the sea and he lulled me into a surrender, an acceptance of what is. Showing me. Showing me that what is is OK. Is alright.
I love him for that, and for that, and that.