Travelers Parted By a River

Waking before the crows wake, while the rooster still dreams. In the family bible, custodianship of which fell to me, are several dried roses in Paul's first letter to the Corinthians which nobody can account for. What Jonathan calls "spiritual condoms."

Though driving through the city in early November after dark does make one rethink their indifference to holiday decorations. The skin on the back of my hands grows thin and wrinkly, and my father weeps in the dusk he now inhabits. Who needs a comma? 

Commence! We fight wars, we build walls, but we can also change. The woman behind the counter selling weed was puzzled by my ineptitude, a somewhat new feature of my relationship with the collective.

Mice scratching in the hay loft walls, the one heater rattling. Coffee is what my brain is not disappointed by. On the other hand, it's projections all the way down.

Everybody wants a lover who wants what they want, but what I want is peace, and the lover who brings it forth in me does not have a body. I remember telling Denise I liked a good sneeze as much as coming and she said, "so next time I'll bring pepper." Zen Buddhists abound.

Early snowfall, the potato garden spackled. Chrisoula's loneliness grows in rough tandem with my own, it's like we're travelers parted by a river we're unaware you're allowed to cross. Or else what indeed.

Sophia and I both laughing at "well well well if it isn't the bridge I said I'd cross when I got to it." It's happening again, isn't it.