the act of

cynthia shaving curliques of wood off edges while i
trim the pieces up on the table saw
slowly, these piles of wood becoming
on this day of cool and rainy
all the cats curled up in the same spot
(on the blankets on the drying racks in the bike shed – gibbous and ashby curled up while moonstar rolls solo)
for its entirety
the perfect texture with the 
perfect sized air pockets at the
perfect warm temperature
of dottie’s sourdough
sliced and spread with butter
next the the chili in my bowl
for lunch
the brightness and rainbow 
of kate’s canyon (prayer) flags
that i unfurl from their rolled up wrapping
in the mail
be resolute cynthia says
about the decision/act of leaving

won’t you take me to – smoky town i sing to darien,
commenting on the impossible smokiness that often results
from opening the door to this woodstove
before we descend the steps towards dinner

the blooms of heat
opening on me/in me
while i practice the steady
rise-fall of breath, 
of lungs emptying, filling, emptying, filling
cold nose (running),
and a hood up over my hat
and the will to lay these words down
because when my nose insists on staying cold
the only thing i want to do is climb deeper
under covers


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