This vale of tears, these morning glories that don't quite scale the chicken pen. These worries, fears, these ballet moves.
Sometimes it snows in late October. Sometimes the dolls wake up and wonder why you are so difficult to play with.
Geese cross the lower east panels of sky above the hills and you count them - six maybe seven - and then they are gone.
The river is mostly gone.
Morning passes half asleep, waking to write a few sentences, rewrite a few sentences, boil water for tea, forget to make tea, worrying about money, meetings later, inter-library loans. There is less to say than yesterday, and only I can say it.
Articles about oyster-farming on Cape Cod making me wish I was an oyster farmer. Lost intimacies, lost time. When she comes upstairs to fight, a choking feeling in back of my soul begins foreshadowing resolution. Wear something black can also mean a funeral is coming. Selah.
The surrey with the fringe on top.
Sheep-farming as a model of escapism, the monastery as an escape. Losing interest as an escape.
Goldfinches in the sunflowers. A surplus heart makes the world safe again for romance. Tell me yet again what your Dad said driving back from Saint Louis about why he left your Mom.