Stirring Silt

The cold snap finally arrives.

In a dream, I am with a houseful of strangers doing deep, psychological work. My job at the end of our week together is to sweep the floors. My only concern is picking out all the prisms that have fallen into the dust. I pick and save them all. It is the second dream in a week that is in a language other than English.

Across the state and back again, highway humming fails to cover the silence of knives. A moment is born here that stirs silt in the deepest underwater cave I know. I want to see love but instead I see trouble. What is this for, indeed.

Heat now shimmies from suburban chimneys along with the occasional whiff of wood smoke. Soon it will all be about leaf management. The absurdity plays out in a constant din. Late wildflowers do not seem to mind – purple lessons brighter than the sun.

In an attempt to be more present, coffee in the living room. I get lost in low morning sunlight filling the gazebo floor with golden grids. Whatever is more interesting than this is unheard and unseen. In this way, marriage is doomed.

A fried egg sandwich with guacamole and pepper jack cheese for breakfast. I see now that enjoying this fully rises in its ending.