Your beard is doing great

The leaves taste as strong as the flowers, you remind yourself
As you bruise them between your fingers, looking for the flood of serotonin before winter settles in.
Some of the leaves are still vibrant.
Some rustle with the promised north wind.
All of them nip at the tip of your tongue. A promise

You pile it high on slices of white bread with a thin layer of butter--margarine, really-- and slide it under the broiler. Watching through the glass door of the oven, to keep it from burning, is your favorite form of meditation. The toast smells like magic, like rescued mornings, and secrets shared

You used to fear oversteeping. Of the song that would come on and distract you, or the magpie knocking at the wind chimes.
The boiling water washes over the leaves and immediately changes color, swirling soothing floral notes like a familiar hand on your brow.

You used to catch the scent on the corner. Waiting for the bus stop, you think. That earthy-sweet with a hint of heat. Maybe they smoked flavored cigarettes. Maybe they wore it on their wrists. The turn of seasons. The wind changes directions. You miss it.

Purple is their favorite color, and nothing as gauche as grape will do. You peel them with a hatchet, like splitting firewood. The hearth is cold, and the pot needs to boil for a good long time. Cedar. Cedar and ube.

Ripples, as over the lake. The very idea that ice cream could ripple gives you a shiver that feels like fingers tripping across your vertebrae. It feels like a hard candy under your tongue. A candy dish that will be empty, when there is no one left to fill it before your visit.

When you close your eyes, you remember watching a little black rabbit flip a strawberry over and eat the greens first. He was saving the sweet for last. A dessert that rolls over your tongue and makes you wish he was wrong: no one really knows how to make them taste ripe. It just takes time.

You find yourself ranging closer and closer to the edge of the forest, ponderous walks elongating as the afternoon shadows stretch the trees. The smell of wild oregano draws you in, and you watch your hands picking just enough for the sauce. It doesn't belong here, but who does?

You always thought "The Wind in the Willows" was more of a wistful wailing than a gentle tryst between two quiet folk.
The thought won't shake its long-toothed grip on you, even as you pass the same lonely bush on your morning stroll, and idly wonder where the berries have gone.

Just about anything I do with my hands. 😏

It Is one of my best skills 😘

I feed my neighbors, and that feeds my heart.

The Rest of my hunger is no issue, but a boon.

Sometimes, I even get friends out of the whole arrangement.
I know that a lot of people have a hard time making friends (online or otherwise). But it's truly one of my favorite slow burns.

😂😮‍💨

I'm sure they didn't report on whether They first lost a similar number 😅

But who published those numbers 😅