How slowly I walk in October. This October.
How soft the brook sounds, like leaves falling, a murmur.
Just because a certain wilderness is familiar does not mean I want to walk through it. How many nights must I gaze up at the Big Dipper - its vast ladle, perforating darkness - without you?
In the morning I make coffee. In the morning I write.
A falling star just shy of the old homestead. Scent of apples. Hay bales. Would you hand fit in mine?
I cannot bear tenderness.
And the night winds go out farther than before and come back. The bear grows sluggish, the space between its thoughts like a liquid.
The welter of women no longer confusing, just one sign of loneliness, one sign of willingness. I read carefully what you write. I am sad to see you go.
The sentences float like dandelion seeds, from God to God. I can say that now. As open as the pine cones whistling down from the sky.