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I wrote a Halloween poem in third grade. It was about whirling around on the ground and it rhymed. They put it in the newspaper and I was proud. It became my holiday. I cherished the goblins and bobbed for apples every chance I got. It was a glorious excursion.
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Christmas lights are strung over Labor Day. We can do that. We're artists. Furniture needs polishing. I need a bath.
Crickets are easing my mind.
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I think about the 22 year old who left me his writing in his will. I think about many things. In this life of mine my friends are dying and I don't like it.Where would I even begin? It's too hot for coffee, and I don't drink it anyway.
It's a beautiful night. I wish that I could see my hardwood floors.
Chasms.
Some things make little sense to me. My father is a minister and I grew up thinking hell would chase me down the street. Who's to say. When do some things begin? Sometimes I think I formed too many words in my life. It's like excess feeling or something. What do we do with it?
Meandering Home/ Route 3 |
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Meandering Home/ Route 2
