time out

I argued with my oracles until they told me the future was grand.

The clouds lift and the days shift from greyscale to vivid reds. The house exhales. I skirt the edges, savouring each solitary space. With open doors and see through walls I am rolling from room to room.

Exhuming dreams.

I've been studying the art of compost; turning shit into heady loams. My passion makes softer tones. I mellow into teapots and turn golden brown in time with bread.

Softer now, she tells me.
I nestle into coals.