Otium Veris

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these are all the things I'd have liked to teach my child and ran out of time a ledger of half-formed ideas a compost heap of thoughts on healing on art on life on relationship on hope on life on purpose the books I never finished the books I read twice the books I read once and underlined in pencil in haste the notes on margins the notes on notes the notes on books on a subject the subject always slipping like sand through fingers I am above that now my flat on the third floor up over where the years have grown I notice the first drafts always come last the rough sketches twisted and bare till later but it may be because I've lived so long in shadows of what I couldn't say that I've learned to hold silence like my child's hand

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Otium Veris

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Distrusted reality