30 September 2018

notes from september.

eggs cooked in butter, baby in suspenders, baby's hand finding my mouth as his mouth finds my milk, a room with a view, falling asleep with my toes touching his, smell of birthday candles just blown out, smell of basil leaves broken between my hands, memories of maine, finding kinship in poetry, ambling about the apartment in his sweater, memories of winter and that sweater on my belly, the soundtrack to amélie, watching baby think very hard, watching baby sleep, waiting for baby to rise, joy in the first sip of coffee, joy in first felled leaves, a first balloon, a found shadow, two tiny teeth clinking on water glasses and shining like pearls, fern hill by dylan thomas, a posie of cream hydrangeas singing of eight whole years in new york city, changing light, the nursery becoming, an old letter box for a new year, a surfacing question: can it be that, in fact, i prefer sazeracs over old fashioneds?, uncountable small things i want to impress upon hearts, "this is where we dry roses to mail to friends, this is one way to love them -- friends, and roses -- out loud."

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