time is upon us, as he writes, fine  dust from the fire,                                       the old way.



we used to sit the rise and think of this. drive the evening hunting the blue           flax fields . found and waded the poppies outside the ****,             worked the red thread. again.                     danced .



it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that, he said.   does this mean it is spring now? it is such a pretty room.                                                                                                           yellow.



down by where we park is a cement mixer, sometimes.



©sbm