August the third.

No hay a quien culpar.

Tonight. I stood unsteady on my feet, as though I had my fifth glass of wine in hand and searching for the sixth, but I had no wine left, and here is what I thought: I’m surprised at this, this day…that this day is here and I stand like this alone, a tree trunk sawed off and blackened out in the verdant forest. This is where I am. Unsteady on my feet, rooted and burnt, my bark felling its blackened crust all about me. But poised where I’ve never been poised.

I feel the wind upon my oaken mask, the skin underneath thin and bruised. Settled like I never was; oh, I eat it up, this day, the newness of it. Scooping it in huge bites into my mouth, into the pitted whirls in the wood. Using my fingers, no patience for utensils or spades.

Things move along. No blame and no recrimination. Some more love waiting out there for you, some more love out there for me, too.

It’s true that things move along.