sunless sunday yet i want to bring a little borrowed light. 

grasshoppers a memory, i wonder where they go, do they really only live one season? and is it a kind of afterlife, living in some poor gray mind overwintering?
it feels like the connection gets severed for me. i think about the book history of the green man i found at the murder suicide sale. i think with exhaustion. i think of riding around in all the trails of invisible gray exhaust. i think, i am one in thousands of vehicles, a fragile vehicle of bones with no protection and a hard winter coming, the farmer's almanac says. who writes it now, the ghost farmers? oh this was supposed to bring a spot of sunlight, sorry, self. 
last night i saw iphigenia and longed for the isles but they were so bloody too, that peace, that madness, isn't that where the present madness ensued. they still have good light, and wild herbs and goats, they still say hello and goodbye with the same word like hawaii, which like the words for wind mean sundry things. 

think of the bees gone. storing up light for the future they believe intuitive. this minute i borrow their light, store it in my gray cells. until a sunny day clutches me.