Playing Opossum


A dim day clinging to bare branches. The smell of fog and the way one can't quite see or hear the world as it was. Beauty and injustice, hidden all the same. The way I see it is not at all the way it is. Perhaps we would kiss like that, at least once.

The cashier asked if the asparagus was green onions; this and other ways to fall in love. One walks around in a white haze and wonders what the world would seem like without the clarity of news feeds revealing exactly how it seems. Must one be untrained to love? Unplugged? I've studied cause and effect long enough. Can we just let it be?

I have a thing for wooden beams – rough hewn, strong, and dashing in simplicity. Growing up in the A-frame loft, the pine walls came to an apex under a single large cedar beam running the length of the house. I remember apologizing to the dead trees and thanking them for protecting me as I slept under their care. So much is left to tell of this story. Can we talk all night? It will take longer than that, something you have always known.

A small opossum plays opossum in the back yard. The dog doesn't really know what to do with it other than bark. This and other small delights in the delay of snow. In mid-November I am walking without a coat and can't help but adore Michigan and her strange reluctance for sticking to the plan.