a kitchen after you’ve cooked: breathtaking. behold, every thing once opened has remained so. some lids are nearby, among leftovers left in view. all drips undabbed, small spills streaked smeared. used utensils lean about leaking leavings. the sink only evidences the same—a chef who barrels on with creation, never stopping for cleaning or clearing the clutter. my full belly fully chuckles at the happy task ahead. house rules: the cook never cleans. and wow, can you make a mess.

also I send love from these two raccoons who just scooted across the driveway in the cold ass nighttime winter out there. The world is alive and wild, and so are we. Let’s trust it.

I am frayed from the tautness of strained senses. My eyes are weakened from looking closely, brow furrowed. I seek silence for my exhausted ears. Muscle and bone, too, are talking quite loudly for my liking, unrelaxed and underutilized. At loose ends my legs refuse to rest, wanting to wander, the mind in hot pursuit. I will pace and wonder and again. Tension leaves too slowly. Growth hurts.