It's suddenly cold in Austin, like sweater weather. Took my by surprise, along with a lot of other things this month. I like seeing my breath in the morning, burying my hands in my pockets. I need a hat, though.
It's been a month of surprises, not a month of Sundays. I've stepped off the yellow brick road and onto my own little dirt path. I like it here in the woods, with the trees and the dirt and the stones. It's ever so much more peaceful than the penthouse I was locked up in. Think I'll leave the horny back toad alone, for now, he's damn good company. Funny the shit that can happen to you AFTER you get sober.
I'm reading a lot of poetry; this is what heals me when I'm wounded. Mary Oliver, Marge Piercy, Mark Strand, Anne Sexton, Billy Collins. They are my companion books, travel in my bag. Nice thing about poetry volumes, they're slim, and they enjoy taking trips.
I thank God for my friends, for the poets, for the trees in the woods. And I wait to see what the day brings me.