I’ve tossed yarrow stalks on a table,
and stared blankly at arcane cards
pretending at small divinations.
Last week I’ve been reading poetry
that survived orally for millennia
before copied slowly onto a page.
I’ve done all these things before,
so much so I almost recognize
the footprint’s patterns in the sand.
Each morning repeats itself:
I let the dogs out, start coffee, piss,
as if the sun wouldn’t rise otherwise.
Yet, it does, as it will again:
so starkly beautiful, so new.
(December 15, 2025)
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