This feeling of being late always, somehow behind - what did I learn or not learn about time that led to this. Old joys scale the nether walls. Always ask: who or what do you recognize most?
Waking early wishing I hadn't, making coffee, sitting on a bench in the hayloft to write. We find our way mostly by narrative because there is no other way. A balance between looking down at quartz and looking up at stars.
Nothing happens ever is one way to look at it but why would you. Dylan songs from the late nineties. A juncture at which one is falling anyway, might as well call it love.
Blue light travels through my heart and this too is the world. Something bitter but true that we do not want to look at. So I like word games and third-person erotica, so I will not betray optimism, so what.
Coming to terms with a childhood that was steeped in forests and rivers, and an adulthood that recognizes there is only one forest, and only one river. Horse cries after midnight, all of us up at once. What works?
I learned how to talk from my father, a non-trivial gift, but how to love words for words' sake from my mother, which was not a gift but something I stole. Hours with Emily Dickinson again, hours with Tom McGrath. Lilting oars on Upper Highland Lake, was dawn ever better, is there any other wealth.
The game of what are you thinking is not as fun as it used to be. Leftover pancake batter, may I never forget to be hungry, I mean grateful, may I never forget what I wasted.