The one that holds fast to my son’s finger lingers a while, a portion of its allotted thirty-six hours spent here under the breath of a three-year-old boy.
Moving from where we're at, always to where we're going, and never really returning to anywhere we've been before.
I feel my roots stretching out beneath me, moving through the dark past like branches move through the air.
It opened me up with some playful jabs - Midwestern winters and their own kind of howling haunt - and then laid me out with a haymaker so rapid that I didn't even feel it.
And the garlands and Christmas lights, too, seem strange without a soul on the street or a single pile of snow on the sidewalks. Like all of this is a forgotten scene that has been stashed in some god’s cellar...
My life is full of conspiracies - workings of a hidden world weaving itself into mine.
Leaves 