I am trying to breathe through the dread that comes up each time I think about my next shift at work. I feel so inspired in every other aspect of my life. The wind playing in the trees across the street is a tableau of shifting light on the wide slats of our coffee table. In the next room, bread is slowly rising and the tap drips, keeping time. I’ve found myself rearranging the house again, as if I get it just right then the rest of my life will fall into place. The afternoon stretches out ahead, all possibility and freedom, the half-formed lists of intentions only guidelines.
These are last summer’s butterflies, collected from the roadside on the fringe of the boreal forest.