November 1, 2022

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I am soft today. Soft as shortbread dough fresh off the mixer, liquored by an extract 
of vanilla and spun with siftfuls of powdered sugar. And salt. Because when I say soft, 
I don’t really mean sweet. I mean the feeling around a streetlight on a quiet road, 
that miasmic halo that reveals the season’s lingering winged things aiming 
for the bulb’s muted warmth. Or when the market vendor, handing me a sheaf of kale,
said it was so much better because of the frost. I’m not saying I am the frost, or the leaves, 
purple-green and pliant, spread across the palms of our half-gloved hands, but whatever 
middle it was that we met. Palm-soft. Air-soft. Truth-soft. Soft as whatever the sky 
is doing right this minute, shedding the day behind it. And in-betweenness where 
what’s next isn’t here yet. Or it is, and if I keep my breath soft enough, I’ll see it.