Don handed the letters over my gate, asked how things were going. All I had to say was, "It’s today."
I'm always thinking how to escape death. Somehow, like that Mesopotamian maniac, the mythic prince who asked for tips from his barista before his story was written in clay; we've heard the screech and the scrim of the snakes shedding skin that proves it's not simple to grant a desire.
I remember the warm scent of pine needles, white pine, sienna golden and fragrant thick on the ground, that warm wood held in its air the promise of wreaths and garlands and snow.