No moon. One considers the stars as children. One reduces awakening to a metaphor. The dog waits atop a hill. She does not speak.
Fear wears heavy boots. Trailing my hand through fallen leaves the familiar smell arises. One pictures her in a hotel, asleep, enchanted with what she can only manage alone. And yet. I slip easily into writing, perhaps too easily.
We are always sorting something, or so it seems. Clarity beckons in the same way a hotel does after a long day's drive. In another life, it is guitars that save me. Cement blocks around which the grass grows thick and tall. What do we want?
And so the flowers fall over in the garden. Quartz sings its muddy song a stone's throw from the brook. It is and that's enough. We like seeing what we have to say, as if that confirms the "later lovely blooming." Now this, again.