Jormungand or Ouroboros?
It is myself that eats myself.
It is not this place.
Not the grinding of this sandy shelf
nor the children on its face…
It is myself that eats myself.
It is not this place.
Not the grinding of this sandy shelf
nor the children on its face…
Branches reaching out,
arms stretching towards the sky.
Who knew that such a tiny sprout
would ever grow so high?
The sound of raindrops
landing on my dry windshield
followed by the sight
of feathers on the river.
Morning spent with an
unruly, annoying child
that was hurting but
could not explain it to me.
The afternoon drag –
both a herald and a tease
for I was in pain
and I knew it would worsen
before I could find my rest.
I made a mistake
and missed yesterday’s update.
Pulling a double
to make up for missing it.
Need to write these in advance…
The gray skies outside – I can feel their weight. Strangely it’s not a burden.