Today was the first real snow of autumn. Feels early this year, with September barely cold behind me. Still as the sky paled, obscured by passages of wind-blown flakes, I was content to stare into winter's veiled face. I lingered over my tea, until the vestiges of cinnamon spices exhausted themselves into my cup and the heat dissipated long since passing through my hands into the chill space of time. I let my violin start my day, finding sweetness in playing the dark to rest, then later I found solace in my fingers tracing my fluttering thoughts on the piano. It was one of those days in which I play the same thoughts over and over, not quite ready to move into a trembling newness. And the words desire to flow onto the page. 

When home is a fragment of parchment
When home is a wisp of the wind
When all the anchors is a banner inside
Words without a place

Everything changes
The leaves kiss the ground
And everything wears down
The decay of sound
A longing so desperate
Of bones torn in two
Hiraeth's the songing
My memory once knew

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