It is Friday, all the softness in the pillows and what the bed remembers of you. The touch of the wind first here in the azalea, then there in the dogwood, the holly, the oak, a singular attention, the granting of a boon, this touch. Standing in the light now as on a headland, clean and solitary. Standing and remembering. Standing straight remembering fold and bend. Aware of yourself here, coming true.
Telling: Streams & Logs