Sometimes it seems that a question you ask is like sandstone suddenly crumbling beneath your feet, and all you can do is fall and hope something gentle catches you before you hit the ground. Then you promise yourself you will never ask again - but the world demands it, this fiercely ordinary world, with all its ordinary people in it, all its insistence that you participate and get ahead.
Sometimes words are a gorgeous and fanged circus troop dancing with each other, edging around each other bitterly, planning to eat each other in the night.
And numbers are not things to be counted, but an infinite collection of pure, aching poems that reflect the light.
And a falling leaf is a letter from heaven, written just for you.
And sometimes it seems that wishes traverse the spaces between us, taking shape, like fireflies or bat-winged monsters, making us run towards each other or run away from each other without ever having spoken a word.
A fragment from my archives for this stormy Sunday, because I am too sodden with old forest rain and its wild remembrances to think about composing a proper blogpost.