We met on Solstice Eve at Common Roots Cafe in Minneapolis. The sidewalks were slick with a dusting of snow. We had peanut soup, pasta, tea, puff pastry. The last time I was here, it was with Colleen too, who has since moved to the climes of Atlanta, and I was pregnant.
We spoke of: goats and vanilla and macaroons. We were more serious about surrender and water and fracture and soil systems and harvest. We winnowed closer to aubades. Ghosts as well.
We decided: a cycle of four, an orderly bit, drawing threads of poems (one word, one phrase) previous. Fifty-two in all, thirteen apiece, and a machine at the end pumping out editions: Vandercooked over chai and winter seepings.
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