And in every swing we see fruition, and yet we keep on swinging.
And when it comes up full, (when she comes up full) we will choke. Our eyes will team with our nose, to water a feeling something like some gold.
We will discover the relationship between our mind and our knees, as we go weak. This is where she helps us bend. This is where she teaches us to both fold and find strength.
This is where I have decided to live, inside the exclamation of Anais Mitchell. She moves at the speed of a flashlight down a late night trail, between thickets, to the rushing stream, that kept the frogs, that kept you up, when you were camping, when you were ten. This is exactly the speed that she travels through my head.
I want to live there with you.
I want to vacation in the first forty-five seconds of her song Annmarie. I can see you dipping your toes into it. I’ll only buy you white towels, and only fly them as my constant white flags. In my sleep, the words of Anais will slip from me, “Annmarie, have mercy on me.”
The song ‘Tailor’ is a calendar I’ve hung outside my door, something I study everyday, though it never changes.
‘Shepard’ is the song where it all began. I can’t break glass eyes better than this harmony, and yet still, feel so welcomed within.
This may be the best way to take terrible news.
This is how I will take my terrible news, in a false sense of reverie, in the forgiving soft truth, of Anais Mitchell.
“Every lump inside your throat
Every crumpled little note
Every idle dial tone
Every hook you hung it on
Everything you should have said
Everything you said instead”
-‘You are forgiven,’ Anais Mitchell