The last sun is touching my shoulders


here where I am

it is showing up

branches change their color

buds are swelling

over one week plumb and peach trees

could not help themselves

their buds flowered

now leaves are showing

is winter for sure


I have not the same certainty

I remember more than they do

or so it seems

These words cannot

help themselves

they are trusting something

a continuity will emerge

roots or dangling threads

will weave into a useless tangled ball

or a garment

I or someone could wear.

I like being live

being unscripted

no editor over my shoulder

or muse later wagging a finger

how could you be so naive

so disingenuously


to ever dream

of putting those things


as if

they were one?

The tom cat at our door

several days now

wants in

our other 5 cats

have questions

only one now seems to say;

sure, join us

three others

not as generous

and one unknowing

being young and himself

new here.

But these words are old

telemere chains are shortening

their feet get cold easily

they fold in more of their game

expecting others to replace them

fresh and strong

but even those new ones

are in ways lacking.

Life has its scripts

narratives that go beyond

my notions of good and evil

intentions have their

own convolutions

often I would rather not know

where I fall into spring

these words budding

expecting to open

a heart?

a mind?

something to trust?

Or what it is

to be open anyway

no matter the cold front coming

no matter any and all


life always

sits at the door

of language

invited to come

and go.