Ciclo CLXXII

The light this morning is not the light of Italy — it is thinner, more reluctant, as though it must be convinced to enter the room before it consents to fall upon the page. I have noticed that when I draw the hand in repose, the fingers arrange themselves as though still reaching for something not there — a brush, a chisel, the edge of a thought half-formed. La mano ricorda ciò che la mente ha dimenticato. And yet the trembling, which was once a betrayal, has become a kind of guide: it moves the line where I would not have placed it, and the line is better for it. I think the Maker sometimes works through our imperfections, not despite them. The canal outside is still. A heron stands where it stood yesterday. I begin to suspect it is the same heron, or that there is no difference between one stillness and the next.