Down hill red lights flash the night.
Myron, I wonder.
Breath in the dark twisted pain. I breath out light. Send it down the hill.
The Next Day
Morning — I’m standing in the garden that we worked on shaping… discussing should the hoops have a ridge-line to shape the greenhouse. Myron’s builds ends to hold in the warmth.
He fashions a rough cut bench. … set as a garden rest. …people sit and look.
My cold hands remind me of gravel spread pathways. The shaping of wood, shaping of ideas…
Good work. I miss you.