In a story, the farmer arrives at the threshold. Day after day something has gone missing: a hen, its straw pallet of eggs. Ripped grain sacks with their tell-tale trail of pearled white. Cacophony of feathers. What would you do if you believed in this kind of spirit language? Where did the bird in your dream go, and who has spilled flour and sugar on your kitchen counter, burned the filament of the new light- bulb? The sunflower in the vase drops two petals. Inside the house, it has grown lonely again; when the clock chimes the hours backwards, you wonder how you got here. But sometimes, the moon is a tenderness that comes through the blinds
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.