Summer Kitchen

by Donald Hall

In June’s high light she stood at the sink
            With a glass of wine,
And listened for the bobolink,
And crushed garlic in late sunshine.

I watched her cooking, from my chair.
            She pressed her lips
Together, reached for kitchenware,
And tasted sauce from her fingertips.

“It’s ready now. Come on,” she said.
            “You light the candle.”
We ate, and talked, and went to bed,
And slept. It was a miracle.

The Blackest Crow

Everybody leaves

What am I waiting for? Nothing. Who am I waiting for? No one.

I'm very close to a goal I set last year. So close. And yet I can't see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. I just see the tunnel. Darkened and endless. I'm in it trying to decide to go forward, sometimes wanting to go backward. (Usually wanting to go backward.) (God, I want to go back.)

I'm talking to myself. The only person who will listen, I reckon. Everybody leaves.

Everybody leaves.

Please forgive me

I'm teaching myself how to play the banjo. If I can be honest for a minute, considering I'm talking to myself here having run off all my friends, I'm searching for a place in the world. These last few years have been very confusing for me and I've recently found myself lost. Adrift. Floating. I need something. This is my message in a bottle. I wonder if the right people will see it

One More Night