She lies dormant ahead of me, an old friend waiting to become reacquainted, “just a little while longer and I’ll be on my way,” and so she waits, faithful, steady and unchanged, biding her time until my return. And I will return, when the leaves fall short, detached from their life source, and the moon hangs low enough to touch, I will take to her like a gull in the wind, I will follow through the foothills of childhood until I return on the other side, unscathed and out of breath from abusing the voice I never knew I owned. She echoes in my mind like a spoiled addiction waiting to be fed, but I put her off like a chore too awful to tackle.
Fall 2007
The Apple and the birdcage 