Tuesday, November 09, 2021

silk shirts in snow

November is a cemetery full of candles for the dead, one of them mine. A cold mist of weariness, stifling dreams. A creative flow slowing into a muddy, fetid pool. Snow turning to rain, dancing to backache.

It is also a warm bed, peppermint tea and fantasy novels to carry you off into worlds of spices and love. 

It is a burst of fighting spirit, hiking boots and silk shirts.

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