if I had a house, it would be made of wood and it would be pink, it would smell of childhood, it wouldn't be too big, it would creak a little, and when entering from the back door, it would smell of fire.
I will bow down to the time: a woolen ball that tumbles from intermingled threads. At the bottom of the hill, I will read very long words that are not often spoken until Sunday. Then I will rest.
we would let ourselves slip into the skin of a sorry place, where one tries to economize on vowels in long words, in order to come to a conclusion that would remain inside ourselves while watching the late blooms.
Outaouais, autumn, October 2017, canon, ©Sylvie G