I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
And so the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're goin' through

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Story Bone

“The taste of cashews reminds me of Christmas.” When I was growing up we had this candy dish that was ceramic holly leaves formed into a sleigh with runners. Every Christmas it would be filled with cashews by my mother or my grandparents. I remember the look of the dregs of the cashews in the deep green, a fine dust of brown cashew parts and the remnant salt that sloughed off.

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