Faint clouds. A sense - accelerating - of emptiness, nothingness which is simply the other side of all this. We are all without God now but not without love?
Peach trees, persimmons.
Garden beans fried with bacon and onions.
Fried bologna, kool-aid.
What does your mother like?
He died four years ago and it was yesterday, in a sense it was always yesterday, and grief responds accordingly. What drifts, what doesn't.
Priests come by in the morning, having nothing to say but prattling endlessly the many scripts they didn't write. How he squeezed my hand, how the time passed.
The horses stomp at dusk - tails swishing - forever urging flies away, the flies returning. It is summer: this summer: there will never be another.
We are out of time who were given everything but time. The neighbors talking to their sheep, telling them to calm down, be nice.
To what do you give oxygen?
Our rotating globe makes it seem as if the sun is setting but the sun is not setting, only burning fiercely, tens of million miles away.
Nobody tends me, nobody can.
Secrets, like stones, keeping.