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How long has it been? Longer than I care to contemplate. My life these days is proof positive that life does not always go according to plan. My plan, anyway. Yes, there is a note of resignation in that, but there is a whole symphony’s worth of notes bandying about that at least lend some harmony to balance out the discord. For instance: I am now 95% dependent for my daily living on someone other than myself, (most often, my saintly hubs). Having such a saint on whom I can depend is a generous blessing. So the days balance themselves out, and I work on laughing as much as possible and ridding myself of the useless anger that tries to work itself into my life. I am more successful some days than others, but each day I am alive and well enough to complain is a victory.

My Gentle and (mystifyingly Loyal) Readers: I know I promised to give an account of my away time, but it is a story I dread to tell. A few words should suffice: since July, multiple broken bones and compression fractures, severe bruising, loss of consciousness, blood clots, followed, ironically, by runaway bleeding of small bowel, and nose. All in all having more blood and blood products infused than would fill up two or three other people. Yet, despite all, I am here. I still find myself thinking that everything will turn out OK; and I am teaching myself that being patient can sometimes involve more than a few weeks or months. Enough said about all that. On with life – as different as it has become, it is after all, life.

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Does the limb, upon which yesterday a leaf was hung,

Now bare, bemoan her loss, unceasing?

Or does she close her eyes and sleep, to dream of warmth?

Until one day she might awake renewed for another season

Of light and soft green earth, bowing and yielding, without pain

To the birds who will make of her a home and refuge – a life

Filled with ordinary days. I will watch carefully, sleep as best I can;

Cease complaint as much as I am able. The naked limb that

Leans against my window has plans unknown, as yet, to me.

Whatever the hopes that shimmer, almost unseen, beneath her skin

They may well be worth the patience of a season’s waiting,

To see what beauty might emerge out of the stillness;

to learn what stories might be told by fallen leaves.

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As always, I wish you enough. . .

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