Like the spoon inside the shovel, my memories, slim and silvery. Like the eyes inside the oak.
The one who was me is no longer. This is one of the godly lessons: we die several times even as the plucky heart goes on beating.
If the tincture of growing old is a remedy was life, was all acquisitiveness some kind of pathology?
The worm inside the thistle; the burgeoning thorn inside the worm; the boy in memory, whose first toy was a wooden top, he’s inside the thorn inside the worm inside the thistle.
My Finnish grandmother had a time honored recipe for thistle soup.
Planet of the Blind 