Our contractor was wrong about everything — when building the deck — Not wrong — rather his karma was to have people working for him who couldn’t quite execute his vision — although the predicted color did manifest
Some mornings the Sun being a furnace is clearer than on others
The plastic flowers in the cemetery — the microplastics seep into the groundwater — doing little for the dead whose appreciation for the bright seasonless colors has by necessity become stunted
Instead — I choose to place my faith in mossy ways and where they lead
Wreath and grate — on the side of a mausoleum — celebrating the circular nature of it all — unless you happen not to be dead — and then you can get some air
I’ll be heading to camp for a week this evening — expect fewer cemetery walks — a few more trees
Resistance is futile
we will be assimilated
None too soon — it’s getting a little bleak around here