I am alert around you. The dog at 3 a.m., nosing aside curtains. Clouds cover up the moon, then continue East, more or less. We are all in motion always. That is how it seems anyway, this you and I.
The old clothespins call to me in my dreams, speaking of a tiny island (the coast of Maine maybe?) on which it is possible to do no wrong and only good. God vs. Magic, the same old same old. I am alert to the subtle shift in light near your face as you struggle with this or that idea. Home is attention, lovingly paid. Earlier, over coffee, I longed again for poverty.
Silly me! I can't carry a tape measure everywhere although one does appreciate a certain order. You turn South, you rise like a feather into mist and then later buckle your knees and listen. In my dream, a kiss, and in this dream - shared - a long talk about Emily Dickinson. Sooner or later one takes what is given.
November sadness like pilgrims waking to a persistent raven. What we fear is never quite worth fearing which we only learn later. Again? I nearly touched your shoulder today, that soft gem that renders you holy. Don't laugh, sister, you're in it as deep as me.