auld lang syne
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it is too warm here for my pitcher plant. and so, in addition to the water and sun, i must supply artificial seasons. tin winters, sided in white enamel and he-man magnets. and periodically a presence, who slides open his new home, for a moment of brightness, before she closes him back up. march 21. this was not a very intelligent design. too ad hoc for omniscience.and i love the confusion of the trees, who must feel teased each december, as they gear up for frosts that never come. and so drop their leaves stingily, like misers do dollars, from their thin cold fingers. waiting for the other shoe that never drops. like we do, as we make old mistakes in remembrance of things past. happy new year, y'all. here's to making new ones.
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