Here is the first in, I am sure, a number of small posts collecting words that I read and want to remember. To begin is a rather sad poem, but I find the last lines incredibly striking.
After the storm and the new
stillness of the snow, he returns
to the graveyard, as though
he might lift the white coverlet,
slip in beside her as he used to do,
and again feel, beneath his hand,
her flesh quicken and turn warm.
But he is not her husband now.
To participate in resurrection, one
first must be dead. And he goes
back into the whitened world, alive.
The Rejected Husband, Wendell Berry