scrawls
still cheaper than therapy*


1.2.12
winter
i love the stacking on of layers, scarf, hat, other scarf, the fingertip gloves. My fingers will feel the thing the Austrians are calling a Russian frost, like little fires, and the end of my nose, and my feet are always cold under the blankets. Always.

When it snows we stand still, catching snowflakes on our tongues and mittens, and cut shapes out of paper. We make soup, we make bread, frame photographs, hang curtains. There is an endless collection of laundry, of coffee-cups, of dust in the corners and under the bed. The potatoes grow eyes in the kitchen, and we have named the little black spider in the highest corner of the ceiling. I will put on the flannel sheets later.

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scrawled @ 12:38






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