going back home

all season, thought to write.

at one point, a deer’s knees bent inward and buckled, which seemed like a place to start. now, the tree is decorated and dying, the train is leaving for Buffalo, and there’s an opening there. if it can be grabbed, there’s even something to hold: pinecone or tied ribbon.

in the new season, soon new year, endings and beginnings come at the same time. come all at once. the thought stays on while the geography passes by, tells the same story of eastward to westward.

east again. atlantic again. snow again. and still, the thought to write is heavy, but not leaning on the page.


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