Aching

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It’s probably my lifelong fiscal classification of poverty talking (from abject, right on up to lower middle), but it doesn’t feel quite right to dress in total fanciness. This sparkle skirt therefore seems happiest with a tattered small-striped turtleneck, and a frayed black lace ribbon at the neck
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Moccasins and lace tights
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Snowflake earrings and brown fur, in a seasonal ode
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Can I not manage to photograph this entire ensemble?
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Here it mostly is, with an addition of large knit mittens to further extend the woodland creature vibe of the jacket.  And my nose

The first turning of the leaves did not thrill the way it used to, when I would shout color with joy.  I viewed the darkened hues with misgiving, heart fluttering a small panic at the specter of unknown killings within. The possibility that beauty harbors disease.

This afternoon we walked in sunshined woods, brown leaves rustling, trunks dappled in sunshine.  Eyes and heart swell at the sight, of loved faces in the sweet smell and golden light.  In defiance I stoke this happiness, blended with the mourning of the day.  Desolation seems to lay in wait, steeping all nostalgic.

Couldn’t we just prefer the way, for this good to stay?

Ask the grandmothers, who’ve witnessed the gradual dwindling of monarchs.  Question the children, who pet moss and carry sticks and delight in snow and rain.  What do you wish could be?  Life pulsing, or this concrete sea?

 

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