…a kind of memory that tells us
that what we’re now striving for was once
nearer and truer and attached to us
with infinite tenderness. Here all is distance,
there it was breath. After the first home,
the second one seems draughty
And strangely sexed.
– from “Duino Elegies,” Rainer Maria Rilke
We’ve had our three days of snow in the Perche this week. The sloped perspective of the hills behind and in front of the house were blanketed in white, with each field bordered by a dark thicket, a barbed wire fence, a barn, or a low-lying farm. We took a two-hour walk on empty roads dusted in white as the powder accumulated, becoming ghosts in the swirling fog until the road, fields, and walkers were one.