Morning arrives like a disciplined follower of Christ and night, like the Roman Empire, is gone. Geese pass overhead, a counterpoint to old ideas of loneliness. The pasture is covered in frost, acres of white reminsicent of snow and what cannot be either learned or unlearned. The world is neither a casino nor a church, and our weddings mocked the Love which is our Mother, though this is not Her concern. I open downstairs curtains, put water on for tea, remind myself it's okay to remind myself of anything. The maple trees without leaves are witch fists. My dead dogs run happily in Her, which means they have forgotten me, which means I am blessed in a way I have yet to understand. The sky at - fine, dawn - is a shade of blue I can only see when you lean into me and whisper "blue." Over and over I was made a beggar, only to learn that even begging would have to be let go. The gourds this year were profluent, beautiful, and nobody understands this. Against the dark I grow wings. She whispers in me "to be sightless is to be the sky" and holds me a little. In October. This October.
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