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Well before leaving, I want to go home. It is cold outside and snowing. It has been snowing each day since autumn and the highs this week are negative.
Would that this letter could be the day’s work, enough to earn my place and a bowlful at dinner but, instead, I must be going out, where it took two pairs of gloves to dig and will take two more to do the same.
The garden sleeps, harvesting ice and a poinsettia, seated by the window withers, dropping blossoms, brown and listless on the carpet. The leaves droop and I, catching double my reflection on the panes, lose sight
of morning, spent listening to engines pass, knowing,
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On The Beach

In the end, there will be no notice, just discovery - the body buried, late, in sand to its neck at tideline where the bracelets bleed.
But here is a secret: our goodbyes are reveals and I sang up til the very last, a lilt careening off the waves, and I’m not lost for the sea returns most everything it tastes (like me) so let that be a lesson:
be careful what you’d jettison. Be careful


“I wanted you to see it,” my Mother shrugs, muffled through the locked door between us of the red wolf circling her child with hunger and aims in its eye.
But it was only a dream from which I fell, tumbling, and yet, curiosity killed the tom kitten who, hearing the howl and bark from the pine trees sprang from his slumber pawed the screen and gave chase – trapped before even reaching the wood.
Only a dream and yet, there are mornings when I wake beneath windows to the yip, to the snarl of coydogs at mess and find I’m unable to lift clear the latch.
It’s then I remember that old, weary haunt – the deadbolt, the canines my Mother had wanted so badly to bare – and concede, perhaps maybe the foxjaws weren’t lonesome