On Leafing (opens in new tab)

2020 It is March. I have slept through my alarm every day this week. Confusion until the silence of dawn reveals that commuters are no longer driving past my windowsill where a dahlia tuber, freshly buried in dirt, prepares for spring. Their bodies roused my body and so we met the day together. No more. It is April. Furnace on, wearing shorts in my apartment. . . . The post first appeared on <a href="