the lights in my neighbor's window hang like planets across the sky. one has gone out, flickered into nothingness, star instead of planet, its light shattered into pieces and darkness, scattered everywhere and nowhere. i like to think it is hidden across her house, between the floorboards, fingerprinted on the doorknobs and windowpanes, that it will show up when she needs it most. tiny night lights in the darkest of times, guides marking her map, starlight waiting to be wished upon.
new year's day, rainy, late afternoon. a fat mockingbird perched in the empty winter dogwood; on the other side of the house, a neighbor's cat sat silent on the sill of an open window. the cat who lives here crouched low in the hallway, watching, about to pounce. they don't have calendars; life just goes on.
after the pounce, a nap by the fire.
today the rain is at last gone. sunday. the colors are soft, faded from the days of wet and wind. fat bunches of paperwhites have appeared, stalks only, blooms a promise yet to come, and there is still one last leaf atop a small wild tree growing from the side of the creek. the wind is hard today, and colder, and the leaf only now shows brown around its edges, brown fading into yellow and then into the green it once was/still is. i think every morning that today will be its last, but it has a strong heart, and stays. today, though, surely. surely it cannot fight the wind another day. were i a philosopher, i would find a lesson in that leaf not letting go, but i'm not, so i just sit on the couch and watch. meditation with leaf in the wind.