Marketa, sleepy, and in her bathrobe, comes in the living room.

Good morning, I say.

I've been up for hours, writing and doing exercises. The writing reminds me, as it has many times before, that Marketa and I have exchanged few emails, much less letters.  We text a lot, but that's diffent. We've never had to communicate by written words alone, which led me to write this bit of stiff language:

~

reading a letter or a poem

you cannot hear me for intonation   nor see me

for gestures   what we have are written words

you read the lines   you read between the lines   

what of expression   what of looks shy or bold

what of the unsaid   the implied

what do words tumbling down a page mean

i fear   i am certain   that my words

can convey only so much   the words i write

must be tempered   i cannot spill words

like a bottle of india ink for the whole wide world to see 

my bared soul does no one any favors

we need our senses   all of them   to read one another

do these words come close to expressing

what i said by holding you   silently   in the church that day

~

We hug. Marketa runs cold water for coffee, and measures grounds into the filter. It is her unfailing morning routine. My morning routine is not routine. Like everything in my life, it just happens. Sometimes I have coffee when we're driving to the vineyard to stay awake, or maybe when I get sleepy in the afternoon and have a project to finish. Otherwise, I like tea.

That day, in the church, her being seared into me. Had we held each other another moment we would have melded, never to be undone, it was that close. Instead, we did separate, but I still feel where our bodies touched.

There are moments we wish to relive. I would relive that moment. 

Another day we sat by the river and didn't talk. It was a sad day. Our dejected body language spoke volumes. This business of writing, typing words on a computer, creates distance. It's meant to close distance, but it doesn't. I can write and write and write. Does it bring us closer?

~

Progress report: the sparrows seem to have finished their nest (across the street, in the V of the CVS sign). I read that they are monogamous, they pair for life, but will inter-breed, which strikes me as something other than monogamous. It widens the gene pool, I get it. I would call it selectively monogamous. 

This is our third spring in the apartment. I assume they are the same sparrows, but distinguishing markings are hard to spot. By behavior, and familiarity with the site, I'm guessing it's the same pair.

They're good as this business of building nests. I think if I were a bird, I'd choose a more rural locale. Of course, from across the street the sparrows undoubtably look at me and think the same thing.

~

Since the last paragraph, Marketa and I had a conversation. That is, she related a story while I made oatmeal. Indeed, gestures and her expression, even her body language, mattered. I was imagining reading her words rather than hearing them. It would have been a dry story. It wasn't. She brought it to life. So what makes this business of writing work, knowing all the while it does work? Words can be riveting (emphasize can be). The full range of emotions can be brought forth in words. What makes it work without sound, gesture and expression?

~

Ding, the oatmeal is ready.

Soup's on, I say to Marketa. She knows what i mean. 

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