The past was not the past I would have chosen had I the words to say it
Spanish gypsies favor polka dots and so do I
A year ago my father was alive but I can’t say if that was better or worse
One leaf falls seemingly out of nowhere
You point out the woodpecker but it has flown before I see it
The ripples of the pond move in one direction—that’s called the wind
it’s a pleasure, the blank page, increasingly sensuous as I grow old in the mirror
I’m walking before moonrise away from the holiday chitchat and one upsmanship and wondering what language the word “gazebo” comes into English from.
Readers–send me some?