I had sunk contently into the dark watching the snow fall outside the window, no lights or candle but the snow lights the room in its own way.
I can’t lean my knee or top of my foot into the floor because I hurt these two places experimenting with yoga without a mat in the living room, am able to do other poses and movement in the meantime.
I satisfied my literary self by writing a letter by hand and also contemplating if the content of my next poetry book is complete. I had written on Saturday a poem that surprised me by its arrival then which was one I was hoping for the book.
I wish to breathe in that scent from the other afternoon which had me lost in it like some recovered memory I knew hadn’t been but was as real as if it had been—it was intoxicating, beautiful, and immersive—some form of sweet, fragrant flowers and smoke.
I can’t conjure it, but the snow is still falling and so I will now watch the snow.