Through trees, Christmas lights. Unlike yesterday, cold against which my hay jacket is little protection. The moon in clouds, floating away west. Nothing keeps, nothing stays.
My bruised heart on not enough sleep. My voice rising making point after point.
Nobody can say how long this will last.
Mushrooms again. Chaos gods. A single gold leaf falling in a forest on a planet no mind has ever visited.
The door to the hayloft opens and closes as visitors come and go with questions and concerns, making it difficult to sink into the writing in a familiar way, and yet one is also grateful for those whose care and attention rises in such deliberate and everpresent ways. Using Bob Dylan to make a point that might otherwise go lost. When after midnight, after making love, one pads quietly down the hallway to gaze out the west-facing window at Main Street to see if snow has begun falling. Corn tassels, wind socks, finger puppets, locks.
Our knees are kindred spirits.
The clothesline creaks as recently-washed sheets are strung up and rolled out to dry in cold sunlight. What was given was given freely and yet something in us insists otherwise. Strapping lumber to the roof of the Outback, hoping for the best going forward.
My glad heart, my grateful soul.