I’ve been misreading words again. Chance to lance, wind to wind. It’s as confusing as a analog clock face to a digital gil. I mean girl. I mean gal.
outlook
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a river of stones (25)
Day starts with chirps,
O’ robins! The mumble of a towhee,
impossible tune of a sparrow.
Now
these word wranglings
close in as if it is
January, cold and dark.
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a river of stones (24)
some say it’s the worst
day of the year
but we can hear the rain
* * *
a river of stones (22)
Rain hard enough to knock moss from the trees. A nap interrupted by clattering drops.
* * *
checking in
While things aren’t necessarily looking up, there are positive things happening. In-home physical therapy started yesterday & I was glad to have stayed another day, to have been able to watch & listen.
I most regret leaving Pop behind, to do all the care-taking. Mother is rather chatty & repetative. She’s got a long honey-do list. Don’t know how I would do with that.
heading out
I may or may not keep up with these short snippets hard as a rock in my shoe. I’m heading to AZ this morning to be with my folks. Mom had an extended hospital stay the first week of the month and left on Tuesday with the support of home nursing care. Hospice care. They are keeping it close, telling only the closest family members and friends. Not neighbors, not all family. I am not sure why but I will learn more, later today.
I suppose it has to do with figuring it all* out without too many outside voices calling in, with too much support and love and too much attention. I don’t know. I don’t quite even know what all* is, although I have my suspicions.
*My all is as oblique as a shuttered door. Does the lock still work? Do the hinges?
a river of stones (13)
We remember it differently. Who was in the house. Who wasn’t. The shape of the tree in later summer, whether the coffee was strong enough. Whether spirits drifted or were lifted.
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a river of stones (12)
Hard pears picked months too early, as beautiful as carved mahogany, sliced, pealed, cored and induced with sugar, spice and ruby port to transition in my mouth. Soft as the old wounds turned to pink flesh.
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a river of stones (11)
The arborio rice soaks up and changes. Hot water and soy milk move through hard cell walls. Glistening bubbled silk is unmasked by salt tears, a chemical reaction not unlike family reunions. This new cooking technique undercuts all those confections made with sweetened condensed milk. Change is good.
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a river of stones (10)
That wolf moon? Leering over the eastern pines? Whimpered this morning, called me from tussled sheets, a mess of dreams tossed at his whine, begging for more than I could give.
* * *
Still writing stones.
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