victrola blossoms
pollinated by wreckless notes
miss you by the rolling stones
dripping across the floor
and an open copy of the arabian nights
today as i write
my prose feels too much like pynchon
more misguided and less justified
it is a day
when the books
are holding up the shelves
eyes seeking oil lamp light
blue jays remain to watch the leaves peak into colors they are incapable of
i prefer to reread the years of letters
be grateful for the warmth within the cottage
merrymaking thoughts
and the expectation of packages