So it's a guessing game then, good to know. Well-polished turtle shells.
Serpentine. Am I studying A Course in Miracles or am I remembering that something comforted me once?
Never leaving the bedroom, that old trick. Unhomed.
In my mid-thirties, a brief spell of painting poems, one or two of which can be found in the hayloft still. What is oblivious to context.
So grateful to be allowed to kneel for her still. An abundance of crows, the days getting shorter, the night telling stories not everybody wants to hear.
Do we not grow up? Fair season ends, coffin ships of winter bear down on our little harbor.
Be less monosyllabic! Therapy interrupted.
Wrapped in a quilt, working on poems. Jasper leaves to visit family in Indiana, always this sense that he will not return and then what.
You want to be told it's okay to leave, so okay, it's okay to leave. Born in a snow storm, what did you expect.
You don't talk much about money she says of the poems to which I respond but I do talk a lot about treasure don't I. We are gliding together above Ascutney, we are rising higher and higher, we are flowers in a clearing watching ourselves rise higher and higher.
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