A house that was once a home, snow melting in the sun; a shop filled with items from Mexico, Peru, Vietnam, Indonesia; a moon that rises this December at dusk. A Saturday now edged over into Sunday.
Tonight we dine on pork chops braised with rosemary and new potatoes in olive oil and herbs. We listen to Jamaican mento, Ben Webster, bits of Ellington and other jazz masters.
We nestle in freshly washed bedding, quilts to keep out the cold.
The moon is now in the western sky, hiding behind houses and trees. She once traveled solely by moonlight, sensing the glow of the road beneath her feet, yet here she is now, wary of the darkness.
When you look in a mirror,
you see yourself, not the state of the mirror.
The flute player puts breath into a flute,
and who makes the music? Not the flute.
The flute player!
When you eventually see
through the veils to how things really are,
you will keep saying again
"This is certainly not like
we thought it was!"