Slower and slower under rainy pines.
Sad pumpkin faces shading half-burnt candles. Maple leaves pasted to the hardtop. Are we, in fact, illusory?
At night the river sings its familiar song, the blind horse stamping now and then, as if to keep time.
And stars that are visible and stars that are not nor ever will be.
Old keys that open no door. Structuring the writing by sentences, rather than by syllables, as for two difficult years I did structure it, a project that to this day echoes and reechoes in my skull.
Back when I climbed mountains at least four days a week.
Brave crickets. Chicken feet in the side yard, ghostly in rainy moonlight. But wait!
My mother's voice as she navigates this new form of grief. Letting go of dog graves.
Clear views of the Lord abide. What we leave as we go along the way, becoming lighter and lighter, not noticing we are floating, are among stars, did not ever "live" and so can never "die."
The lilacs, the hemlocks. Circles in which we are gently recollected.
Pancakes and bacon sizzling on cast-iron pans Chrisoula and I bought before the wedding but after the marriage.
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