It is hard to believe. But, it has.
Autumn begins to crumble underfoot already. Where has the time gone?
I'm not even entirely certain I am back, whatever that entails. I'm not entirely sure that this fits, really.
Let sleeping dogs lie
At least that is what the fibers in my chest hum, struck chords reverberating until I shudder. I feel I've listened to such melodies for far too long. My voice cracks and peels in such desolation.
So, here I am.
Outside the foliage shimmers underneath the sun, aquarium dream shadows dancing across the curtains. A truck rumbles by, its girth bemoaning movement with a lurch of gears - always the mechanical chatter of automobiles these days. Here.
I began reading Snake-Back Solos by Quincy Troupe today - "Ash Doors and Juju Guitars" . The words were filled with deep roots and the smell of charred wood; they conjure and dance.
I purchased the book from a store that smelled of dust, wood varnish, and age. "Pat", to whom the autographed copy is addressed, left it behind for reasons unknown to find its place on my bookshelf. It lay dormant between Tony Sanders and Natasha Trethewey in a half-baked alphabetizing attempt that grew too tedious for completion.
Until now.
It seems somehow fitting to be resurrected on a day such as this.
On a day when the world seems to be stirring.
