Soon, the steep rise of leafless branches. One ponders picking flowers from a thicket yet refrains. How often do words reach behind; how often does intuition swim ahead? The lake-shaped horizon placates the query. Long looks far away – an anchorless distance.
Filling the watering can reveals a perfect half moon of dazzling jewels just beneath the opening. An unseen web finally exalted and the pedestrian life of care-taking reaps a small reward. Every bend of the back, every wooden floorboard scrubbed, every ingredient harvested, assembled and cooked . . . a life stitches itself together in the small moments of nothing. But do they stitch me?
Mosquitos are still active this late in the game but have now begun to wane. Bees, chrysanthemums and acorn tops. Michigan's hand still waves but the arthritic bones warn of the granite ahead. We who grip the cliff during winter's hold tend to wonder if there will be enough light. It's almost time to move the plants indoors; it's almost time to shiver. The sky is always cold.
Ginger tea these days and yoga instead of running. Swelling under the knee and an absence in my heart. Besides, I was only ever running in one direction.
towards October / her flag on fire / maple dusk