The nights around here are like good poetry. The phrases are brief and sparkling – never lengthier than the stretch of my headlights through the unwinding roads.
I’m writing in black ink today, which is psychologically more daunting than blue.
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 