It rained hard last night.
Everything is washed.
I love how wet wood looks, How the moisture creeps into the grain. Holds and darkens the pattern. Rain dyed. While it lasts.
I checked out the fermentation vat before going to bed. And then thunderstorms. Hot and steamy day. Happy vat.
A quick cloth moment. An overlapping nine lives patch. And thoughts about how time/ order slips/ slides beneath itself. Nine moons tacked quite invisibly to an old wash cloth. Dyed Blue. Resting.
I feel something in me slipping, shifting. No, maybe not in me but around me. I walk yet I slide beneath the path of others. I slip between the hurried footsteps behind me. I am invisibly connected to a swift current yet dragged just below the surface. I have a name that I do not recognize when it is spoken. This I dreamed. Lost in going, the going of others. Turning back, I trampled over myself.
from The Year I Became Old
