We gather things: tender buttons, bits of string, sea glass, chimneysweep soot. It’s not the stuff of dreams, but it holds us. The murmur of morning, the tick-toxic cluck of clock. A wayward word. Some lint left overfrom yesterday’s storm. ::In November, we poem.
Remember how only the Bumble could reach the top of the Christmas tree to put up the star? This is like that, except I’m not tall and I don’t hang stars or (come to think of it) light anything at all. And I could let … Continue reading →