wordless Nov 5, 2022

cupping my hands
to catch cold water

the sky---blue, gray, white, and white
gently crowded with clouds
beaming and untouchable

the faucet handle squeaks

so many drops of dew
on the sassafras assembled
reflecting bright and still
on plush green seats

the wind sounds like rain today

the moon hanging in the void

i am the flame barely visible against the sunset
i am the dry, cracked earth and rocks
i am the snowflake far from its flock
i am the call of the cricket on the coldest summer night
and i look up and say


all writing, chronological
next: vigil for the king of mortification
previous: we must look at the entire picture