84: Sense

The old fence post still smells like redwood, though thoroughly rotten in the damp soil. It stays out in the rain, and so do I. A nasturtium climbs the pickets; I pick a blossom; its delicate surfaces glisten in the soft light. It tastes like the smell of radish sweetened by a wink of your kindness. All too quickly, I’ve had enough to eat. I shall spend my days listening to melodies that I cannot write down and my nights covered with damp leaves, whatever leaves I can find, leaves of trees I try to remember. The soil is soft; I sink my arms in it to the elbows. I lean my head on its pillow and hear the roaring of old storms.