Autumn. Linens in storage and woolens airing on the porch. Cats napping in patches of sunlight.
Who are you? Why are you reading this? Are you a friend or a foe, or a past friend who has fallen into the gaps of memory?
My heart is wrapped in mothballs. Is reeking of mothballs. Is more content, settled, hidden in the dark recesses of the closet in a box within a box within a box, surrounded by tissue paper and naphthalene, waiting quietly for the appropriate season to appear. Colette wrote ' Retreat from Love'; she wrote 'Break of Day'; she understood. The efforts involved in giving away the best of oneself require exertion too great to be sustained.
The rejuvenation of the nap in the sunbeam.