Monday. Bronze sunlight on the worn gray rug in the dining room where Viva sits playing her recorder. Pain-ripened sunlight I nearly wrote, like the huge vine-ripened tomato my friend brought yesterday from her garden, to add to our salad: meaning what comes in its time to its own end, then breaks off easily, needing no more from summer. The notes of some medieval dance spill gracefully from the stream of Viva's breath. Something that had been stopped is beginning to move: a leaf driven against rock by a current frees itself, finds its way again through moving water. The angle of light is low, but still it fills this space we're in. What interrupts me is sometimes an abundance. My sorrow too, which grew large through summer feels to me this morning as though if I touched it where the thick dark stem is joined to the root, it would release itself whole, it would be something I could use.
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