This seems to be the season for still, quiet moments. I just read a poem by Wayne Miller called Nocturne: "Tonight the leaves are paper spoons / in a broth of wind." It seems that exact type of wind has been swirling around my mind these days. All I want to do is sit at my desk, gaze at my beautiful eggplant hued statice, meander through heaps of crunchy brown leaves, write poems, or sleep. Can't I just do these things and be left alone? Alas, hark - the research papers call, the neglected friends call, the dishes craving sudsy water call.
For right now, though, I'll just stare at the statice.