I have felt the weight of words lately but the universe is not one to be forced to speak or sing just because I said so. Instead I make biscuits, and meatballs, and soup from squash and apples and fennel seeds. I am comforted by my kitchen cocoon, woven over glass between oven-warmed air and north wind. I run a race at a breath-taking pace with my sweet friend and we hold hands over our heads like school girls as we cross the finish line. I drink red wine. I listen to Bach. I sleep restlessly. I feel the moon even though I cannot see it. I walk in the changed woods ... waiting.
Damn good soup, too....
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