the horses ride, they are just shadows on the wall sometimes this whole old house is liminal sometimes i am allowed sight of a secret door other times it's just a wall the door... three hundred years gone
the glow of october is exhale on ember cold brings the dark and in dark, we remember ivory and ash a dull brass latch opened right before we woke, and - a dream that would not pass
full moon crowns its bare head out of the cloud's thighs wind doula unspools the thread through fog and song she'll guide