Most of what exists is without pedigree. How did it come into one’s possession? From where? What makes a 1935 still exist while so much else passes away?
An old school desk gives me a half-mind to refinish it but where would I put it? Life is full and yet more things fit. Flip-flop-flip.
A torn work mitt shoved on a picket on a whim how many years ago never left again. But why should it?
I like the cut of its jib, the upright nap of it.
This angle pleases as well.
There’s as much sense to one thing as to any other. As much as friendship between individuals who happen to be an owl and a cat.
Our World Tuesday