12/20/24

Forgotten shapes emerge as the seasons change. The branching pattern of the sycamore’s limbs assets itself as the rust-toned leaves fall away. With the collapse of the ferns, our back yard is huge. I walk along the ledge of railroad ties and look at the pattern of ice that has formed at the base of the heap of stones in the way back. In the side yard of a neighbor’s house, a wrought-iron chair that was lost in green foliage all summer is now encased in a twisted snarl of dry yellow fibers. On the other side of the window, our potted basil presses itself against the glass and blooms.