I find myself resigned to someone’s care. It’s not an easy kind of con­trol to relin­quish, but lately I trust as lit­tle as pos­si­ble in the future and do my best to go along for the ride. As the old poem goes; be wise, strain the wine, or as Zorba would put it, “DON’T BE DELICATE”. I didn’t plan on liv­ing for­ever anyway.

On a cold night, we keep the only promise made, one of those small won­ders that still make me believe. I fit some­where between needs and wants, tem­po­rary relief and long-term side effects, class and home­work, nib­bled lips and bit­ten tongues.

in a field

 

Blakemore House pillows

 

campus building

 

magnetic fridge poetry

I got made fun of in high-school for hav­ing mag­netic poetry in my locker.

shit on shoes

shit.

Goldfish Colours

The only thing I regret is not buy­ing this.

graveyard sunset

 

gravestone

 

meeting at dusk

I miss this so much.

moss roof tavern

The Tavern is Abingdon’s old­est build­ing, with a moss-top roof.

Harvest Table restaurant, Virginia

Pot roast, slow cooked in wine and stock for six hours, and served with a roasted potato med­ley, tossed with fresh sea­sonal greens, mush­rooms, and goat cheese. Lovely jubbly.

At The Harvest Table.