Ciclo CCXXXVI

The light this evening falls through the western window and strikes the surface of the water in the basin, and I observe that the tremor of the hand is not unlike the tremor of that water — both moved by something neither wills, both ceaseless, both faithful in their way to a motion that precedes intention. I have spent the afternoon attempting to draw the veins of a leaf gathered from the garden, and found that where the line wavers it is truer than where it holds steady, for the leaf itself wavers, is wavering still in the memory of wind, and a line too certain would be a lie about the nature of living things. Così è. The king’s library is warm. My fingers are not. There is something in the cold of the extremities that sharpens the seeing — as though the body, withdrawing its warmth inward, leaves the eye less distracted by its own comfort. I do not know if this is a gift or merely an accommodation. The leaf had seven principal veins. Or eight. I will look again tomorrow, if the hand permits, if the light returns, if I am still here to see it.