I wonder how many of my posts start that way – and continue on, “I have no idea how I got there any more.”

It’s poems. I’m guessing there are people allowed to post a poem, and they discuss it, and it’s brief, and on a blue background. I just click on random, and wander around. Very elusive, and unrepeatable, and “Mysterious-Tunnel-of-Love-at-the-fair” in that it’s a new surprise each time. Especially since it shows up as “Kingfisher” in my bookmarks. I wander away for a few days, and then wonder what it is.

The First is over, and was just bad this year. Not horrible, or overwhelming. I overheard the two women I punch in with talking about their brothers, and how they can’t wait for this time of year to go by, because they have that same chunk of loss. I find it very comforting that we’re all in it together, this “Dead Brother Society.” I suppose it’s the same, but different, for people who have lost sisters. So look at that; I actually belong to the human race.

I love this time of year. We were at the coffeehouse early this morning, and the people (mostly women) would come tumbling in the door with the wind at their backs tossling their hair, unwinding their scarves all smiling and stomping and shaking off the wet and the wildness that can’t be ignored, out there. Some people hate the wind. I think I wear my hair long, and wrap myself in shawls and skirts, so the wind will come play with me, teasing and pulling me away…