Writing Christmas cards. Writing always fraught with whatever the year has given or taken.
Clearing the deck—or desk—for Janus, god of beginnings and ends, passages of whatever sort. Looking behind; looking ahead. Writing on the threshold of two years, in that shivery liminal space smelling of old woodsmoke and cardamom where everything again for just a night or two seems possible.
image: While I was writing Christmas cards, Blue Is Bleu
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