and her hair was a folded flower,

wandering in night gowns, frothy bubbles, and folded legs,   This is my November.   A 30 day stretch of sleeping, whispering in ears, and collecting words of elsewhere.   I am saying goodbye to the month of repose, and wishful thinking.   My slumbering days are over, I want to be young and foolish.

As December lingers on the horizon,  brilliant white sands will soon fall from the sky.  My birthday will soon arrive, and I'll be raking, and combing to find a time machine. The years just slip away, like a forest animal on rotten ice, or frozen cream on a sunny day.  I'm mulling over thoughts of a party.  Maybe, it'll be a gin sipping-banjo slapping--- gathering of nice people.  Maybe, speech slurs at a folk concert. Maybe, it'll be a slow dance at a bar... Any suggestions?    Most of my birthdays are quiet. A time spent with family spirits, my favorite snacks, and bottles of wine.  This year, I am tempted to mingle my hands, and celebrate my 19th birthday, foolishly.


Calgary folks have been charmed by a long Autumn. We've been far away from quilts, and closer to sun beams. The streams are still ebbing, and wet. The hilly lands are blanketed by grass, and dust. The rooftops are dry.        My headache has traveled west, catching someone else's misfortune.  December will come, and my days will be spent awake, alive, and well fed. 

“That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know-
Although they do not talk of it at school -
That we must labor to be beautiful.”
― W.B. Yeats

kisses,






                                                                     what i wore* white lace dress- Mom's closet floral harvest crown- handmadewhite wedges- aldo $40faux fur vest- blue notes $15

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