Threading water.

If the rain would just fall, the seasons change, the light shine steadily just a little longer, it would be easier to see where threads are being thrown. They are so delicately done, dropping and dripping their way into all the interstices of these days. Not even doubt daunts them. I start to imagine other things being thrown: graces, glances, gauntlets. Gloves, if we still did that kind of thing. Whoever we are. What nets me reliably, night after night, is a tiredness born of too much to do and more tasks joining the queue at each turn. It's not quite blinding, but it is a track-stopping tiredness. It's knocking on the door right now. I think I can hear rain falling behind the leaves that are falling just beyond the cold windows, even though the rain isn't due to start for another day. There's only one thing to say: hello, and welcome, and where have you been, and why are you here. One thing, which translates to: when you see a sunset out of the corner of your eye (because it has tipped the tops of the eastward buildings in red) as you hurry from place to place, do you stop? or do you keep going? Do you at least slow your steps? Do you smile a greeting at that improbable shade of light? Is there space for another thread to catch hold?