Stew

Every meal ought to be a poor man's last supper. That notion was how my grandmothers taught humility and gratitude. Grace. Because another may not come. And people we love deeply die. Might not ever see them again. So you better warm their stomachs while you can---their hearts. And yours, of course. That's my plan for today. And also to stay sober, even though I do call for

a bottle of beer in my recipe. Plus parsnips (they say they can grow just about anywhere). And meat, meat, meat. It seems it's what makes us feel most alive. At least for me. I crave it about as much as I do a woman---all dressed up, sparkly and perfumed in this very ugly world.

September drizzle---

after the porchlight's glare

a deeper darkness