Saturday, March 31

Thursday, March 29

a deep-Mediterranean-sky-blue length of hose-pipe, waiting to take water to the flowers

Wednesday, March 28

Buddhist service

just three voices tonight, circling the room as the light slowly fades

Monday, March 26

a pair of fuchsia socks pinned on next door's washing line sing 'tulips'

Sunday, March 25

she can't place me. I've met her many times. I tell her again. needing to be 'placed' by her, not liking being nobody.

Saturday, March 24

at the end of the morning we sit by the river & talk about what's most important

Thursday, March 22

a black & white spider, delicately painted, crawls across the blacks & whites of the page

Wednesday, March 21

whoop! whoop! whoop! a black bird high above flaps his wings & sends down these gifts

Tuesday, March 20

home: not a place. somewhere we've been all along. something we return to.

Monday, March 19

a few days with the whole family

raw spots are rubbing against other raw spots. we try to stop each other from hurting. we try to stop ourselves from hurting. we go round in circles.

Sunday, March 18

at shanklin botanical gardens

at the top of the cliffs. the sea goes on forever. the sun shows us the shortest path towards the horizon. in the dimples of a large rock, light & water create shattered pieces of star. we lie on our stomachs and drink it all in.

Saturday, March 17

an upstairs lounge on the car ferry. both of us reading our kindles. a dog yelps and mithers, distressed. a teenage girl tries to see the dog, but she can't, and neither can I. we go back to our reading.

Friday, March 16

Tsuki getting strokes

Tsuki arches her back with joy, her body can hardly contain her purrs. She collapses onto her back. Roshi pats at her tail, her mood switches, they pitterpatter downstairs to play.

Thursday, March 15

spiderweb sags on the washing line
dragged down the the weight of dew

Wednesday, March 14

all day I snap at Kaspa, making him what I don't want to be

Tuesday, March 13

Monday, March 12

Sunday, March 11

Saturday, March 10

at the sandwich bar

he speaks heavily accented English and we struggle to communicate. this sandwich. no, this one. no, toasted. no, this one as well. no, take-away.

Friday, March 9

alone in the Chapel, I walk & chant quietly, ready to stop if anyone comes in. feeling guilty, for bringing the wrong God into the room.

Thursday, March 8

crunchy fragments of butterscotch run through the creamy chocolate like sweet stars

Tuesday, March 6

hunting

the young cat brings in a ginormous leaf & places it at my feet

Monday, March 5

corrugated roof on the shed: dark green & ordinary, curves perfectly pencil-shaded in the morning light

Sunday, March 4

half an hour after we arrive, they turn the too-loud television down

Saturday, March 3

St. James Park: at first glance flat worn grass & uniform trees. A flash of squirrel tail, a clump of snowdrops, that girl's bright red coat, even in disappointment there are clumps of beauty.

Thursday, March 1

interrupted by a blackbird

in the middle of washing grime from the oven with bright yellow liquid I hear a warbling blackbird. he sings to me: "don't forget to write your small stone today, don't forget to look at the sky where scribbled plane-trails criss-cross the blue, don't forget to notice the skeletal rose-bush has sprouted plump spherical buds full of promise. don't forget."