Facing the Long Good-bye

In the stillness following a midnight storm
my eyes move across the surface of morning.
First light reveals innocent branches bent low
from the weight of the wet, unseasonable snow.

Her eyes follow mine.

At least the fire danger has dropped, She notes.
You could burn all those files and broken pallets now.

Yeah. If I could find them, I say, with some resentment.

There are discernable undulations on the surface,
but the sharp edges of old ideas and things gone wrong 
are hidden under this pure white shawl,
and I’d rather leave them buried.

Oh, you can find them, She says.
And with some accelerant, 
you could have one hell of a bonfire. 
Perfect conditions for that kind of heat.

Where would I even begin?
I ask, but I don’t want an answer.

Twigs. Wadded up pages ripped from your journals. 
Start with the small stuff.

Right, I echo. Start with the small stuff.

You’re going to ignore me, aren’t you? She smiles.

Yes, I am. I grin back.
I need to feed the chickens and shovel the walks.

Of course you do, She nods.
And I need to change the colors of the leaves.

She hands me an ancient paintbrush streaked with sunrise.
You’re welcome to help if you end up with extra time.

And in that moment, I see our destiny: 
to be refracted like light
into pigments so beautiful and pure
we won’t recognize our hands anymore.