The light from a sickle moon is drawn into a downstairs room.
From the outside, to the sublime to
the sacred.
The cracking of the radiators already gone for hours, and yet one could swear to hear a whisper in the pipes. An old woman some tell.
Don’t start to justify yourself now, I heard it say in my frontal lobe. Only a sure sign of what may erupt one day, crinkles on my forehead .
For the moment the six year old patiently waits, the hope of a child unrivalled in the animal kingdom. And so is her curiosity. Inexhaustive, exploring, adventures that haven’t even happened. Anything could cause excitement.
But there are no ghosts here. Happy homes don’t inhabit dead souls, only the living cold finding a sanctuary in their dreams.
At the bottom of the garden, brown apples from the orchard stopped, rotting in the ruthless frost, covering the tips of blades of grass at this hour.
In the day, black birds peck them to the core, until only the seeds lay bare, open to sprout in spring.
With all good fortunes.
