It is thick, this layer of dust on my mostly abandoned blog, with seasons and changes, days and years...gone without written proof that the moments that peppered them existed at all. Or that I did. Why I let that happen has surprised me in some widening splinter of recognition every day. Summer splendor and winter weariness, year to year, mostly gone –– little pen to paper in that private world of a journal or public view of a blog, started and then left to dangle. Shouldn’t that be a writer’s milk? When I think of all the
