The canoe that lay in the corner, propped against the wall,
never belonged to him. The means, the ends.

There were too many candles, and never enough all at once. Sweetly.
The dust on the floor,
the scraped patterns,
the whirling designs.

The tiny creatures that lived therein.

Not all the stones on the wall are from the same quarry.

Pink granite.
Azurite,
Biotite,
the occasional smattering of limestone.
So well done, a master and his hands there once was, at least here.
They didn’t all sit well with each other,
as is all too often the case.

The furs of some giant, now unrecognizable beast,
musty,
welcome near a fireplace,
like those they just don’t make anymore.

Huge overhanging Hearth.
Inside, metal accoutrements
once so necessary and dear, likened to those that look upon.

There for heavy pots and kettles.
Some there, some not.
All once needed...but now?

The low flame.
She comes again, the ever dancer.
The crackle,
The beautiful pitch-black solid dark cracks.
The grayscale cover.
Vertical lines stacked atop each other,
enigmatically interrupted,
by the horizontal flames that play in their crevices.

The solid red of wood, that once was.
The brilliance of our heat, fading out, dissipating all too quickly.

You've got to wrap up tight.
You've got to get bundled.
You’ve gotta just grab one part of it and roll,
and roll,
until it doesn’t do you any good anymore.
But still you don't let go,
Not until it's time. Hopefully you'll know when it's just right.

Laying there,
on the heat of blankets,
pillows,
staring blankly up at the ceiling,
remembering them,
wondering if they remember you.

The floating dissociative feeling of not needing your body,
vaguely even aware of it or breathing.

Warmth and comfort,
too often taken for granted.

The feeling of being home
and never wanting to leave.
Having done so much and yet nothing.
The satisfaction that everything that needed doing
is done, and yet hasn't even begun.
The cycle with or without you.
Days of counting. Days uncounted.

(But it’s a daze.)

Not knowing,
not caring,
restless in the void.
No calling out.
Tumultuous whispers,
cycles of darkness.

Dreaming in colors.
Solid panes and planes of flawless hues,
nothing more somewhat, less.
Happiness and lust. Back to the dream.
Devoid of sin,
natural,
all of it and nothing.
The fruitless inexhaustible wandering.
The things we would fight for.
The things we would trade.
The things we would say and do
to have it all again.

Not necessarily regret or longing,
just a comfort,
an ageless knowing.

No delight.
Nothing close to rapture or joy.
Enlightenment a far cry.
A silent internal satisfaction,
without, effort.
An Understanding.
Acceptance
or just giving up!
Lips and smiles,
hair twirled around fingers, eyelashes.
The delicacy of little toes.

Thinking back to when anything actually
really mattered.

Birds and crickets,
reminders that it’s not a bubble.
That you can’t find the isolation.

Tenderness.
Wholeness.
Extravagance.

Words that would have been
better left unspoken.