By definition I'm a holer

Yes, a person who makes or bores a hole is a holer, or so says the OED. There's truth in it, believe me, for every step I take eventually leads to a hole and here I am again. The hole, like most holes of note, seemed small at first, but quickly deepened. It's many-layered. That's just the way it happened to go down.

Manhole flower do flow

I know where it is, want to go down, hear light & amp; power do pow.  The hands that pick at the edge of the hole will pull the iron aside.  Climbing I'm, in that order. 

I'll know what works when it's not distinct from sensinging.  None of this haven't been looking, been too busy writing.  Above ground, that would be.

I wear my light & amp; power hat, cleated, created, look up for what I need.  I was the first one here.

Look here

When you get right down to it, a face tells all. Pollen clinging or not, it's a representation of human countenance. Something to be admired or despised to some degree, or so says the OED. Sometimes you have to get down on your knees to get a good sense of things. That's where I'm at, but not for long. Something will stem from this. It always does. Face it. I'm no little pansy.

pool loop

Picking the water in front of me and pushing it behind proved this morning to be a system that works.  Left me gasping for breath at the deep end of Wascana pool, though--clinging there, a peach to a tree, sack of breath attached by hands and feet to to the edge.

That shadow had been mine, ripping wave-shaped over the bottom. 

I'm upgrading to the tandoori salmon for lunch at the Fireside Bistro, I remember thinking.

Nothing but back and forth after that.

Stewing

I just picked a handful of Tiny Tims for supper. There's an army of them ripening in a pot on the front step, some red to the point of splitting. The plant is as tall as me, its branches sagging wherever they lack support. That's most places these days.

The trees all around stood still as I picked. Not a whisper. I don't really trust those trees. Not anymore. Some scientists believe trees communicate with each other. I can just imagine what the willows are saying, especially after what happened to the birch. I suppose tomatoes communicate, too. They sure raised a stink as I picked them off.