Near to the bones of warming solitude we wildly graze. We are out here in this place where our vagrancies are enabled by the mass grace of words stories voices that roots us home. At home with solitude we are at ease here. Near to the bones of warming solitude we jazz we expand we bask in tenderest most grave intimacies. We are at home here. Outside barred windows we hear autumn’s winds gusting in noisy volumes with brisk suicide yellows flaring everywhere as funereal raptures as summons from other worlds flashing life like before our sleep storied eyes. The bones of autumn a sonata. The soft papery crashing of yellow the feathery death plunges of reds browning. The ground becomes a plein air cemetery. We stalk memories in softest slippers. The season gets into and behind our eyes. We project cinema of memories patina of old griefs resurfacing in montage snippets. Near to the bones of warming solitude we expand internally. We expand infinitely within a swelling expanse of grief and tenderness exploding into seeds scattered upon the earth. We yield and the force of all things moving moves through us at the pace of autumn’s dying. Near to the bones of warming solitude we bless and inherit the risks of shedding. With crises accumulating and tensions tightening we look to the leaves for guidance on the necessity of shedding. We draw distances nearer to us and nearer still. We reap the softly singing pollen deaths of yellows. With the nearest bones of solitude we warm ourselves by the embers of words stories voices expressing gratitude for warmth generated. We partake slightly of echoes. We remain alone in the company of words. Near to the bones of warming solitude we grow favorably tender and bear the follies of sorrows of being here now with plasmic yield. At best cosmic acceptance but that may never come. Or it will when death brings it along as a customary parcel a gift from the world of unexpected. Unexpectedly we go on. It is the infinite groove everyone’s drummer different though the sameness of source. Near to the bones of warming solitude we bask in volumes of words stories voices we as wandering vagrants adrift in the company of echoes.
Artwork by Linda Stojak