Burnt incense

No one wraps the news with a rubber band

throws it up on your porch to read at leisure anymore

Talking heads deliver it

hurled in sound bites – abusive verbal beatings

I receive mine from my news feed

refuse to be yelled at by the properly coiffed and groomed

Sitting on the porch reading the news

a dead limb snapped and fell to the ground in our yard

A piece of a larger branch

dead at the trunk looming overhead waiting to fall

I slip on shoes, gather wind’s harvest

take it to a wood pile separated into kindling and fire wood

Soon, we will host a fire pit

write down wishes for our future and consign them to the fire

Ink and paper carbon carried up

into the night as we talk of the future and the work to be done

1-15-20