The other night when at 2 a.m. both dogs woke me. The moon bathed in wool settling through trees and far hills. The snowy yard now with yellow tunnels of piss.
Rain makes its peace with this winter. In Advent we learn we are broken. Redolent with mud, wind, peppermint.
Sometimes we sing. I do, I dedicate these alms to you. There are maps and cities, some of which I've actually seen.
Had he mentioned his umbrella there at that point? A pilgrim with broken hands? There are places yet where night never ends.
The florist played quietly a sonata while his daughter listened. Like that, but different. To this point anyway I have managed to listen.
A saga reduced to documentary informed by poetry. "They knitted with yarn in the family barn." Fiona wore a pink slip and ate apples.
So forgive me. You were on my mind to a specific distraction, this one.
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