Now it’s up to the winter trees to carry us. They stand sentinel. “Empty your pockets,” says the alder. In summer he was a foolish thing–a dunce–but now, shaking his last strained leaves he’s a genius.
Meanwhile post cards and letters to be gone through…
Christ I need a cup of tea.
A small spider walks across the Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens.
Arvo Part playing on the radio.