netzach shebtiferet
The cat jumps up on the couch—if only it were the one I’m on—and settles in.
Alas, I will have to find a different path to what I want. The rain keeps falling today,
restorative, strange. The crew hired by the group who own the creek running through our backyard never showed
for their annual visit to redig the bed, cut away the red willow roots, leave drying dirt clods
by the banks. Anger comes and passes. Numbers rise and fall as we watch and try to count.
I put on the suit jacket, unbutton it, button it up, take it off, fold it back up.
First there is Northampton, then there is a mountain, then there isn’t. Cups collect on all flat surfaces.
Old checks go into manila folders. Exhaustion accumulates, then overflows. We hold hands to find the harmony again.
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