from my hole i have a view of everything
i sit here with the roof blown off
wringing my hands over the intangible
—received visions of furies, wrathful
literary dakinis, radical faeries—
the four walls of my pit
are wood-bound and quaking
Today I couldn’t see the Mountain.
Strange how Autumn brings days of unending blue clarity, then stifling fog that turns the ringing reds to a moulding brown. The fire cannot breathe.
A season of Binaries… As is Spring.
Soft baby hair grows tender white in the windowsill. The bean sprouts bloom. I run my fingers on their tips gently, pack and forth - too cold now for the porch, where the squirrels have claimed ownership of the barbecue. They dug up my late tomatoes and ate half of my only sprouting yam. Mischievous tree sprites.
Still, they are welcome guests. Like busy old aunts they gossip and chatter, sewing their leafy home above the coals. I like to sit on a chair nearby and listen while I gaze unfocused at a book.
Not long until the next fog comes.