I love something about this haunted time of year. These crow and pumpkin months. The poltergeist winds and fingernail moons. I glove my hands and go into the hedgerow to cut nettles, stem after stem until I have a bag full. A spine breaches through to my fingertip and the pain buzzes there for hours. I boil the leaves in saltwater, bake them into bread.
These days the afternoons rise around my neck like a tide. I drive in the dark and come in the evening to a house which needs kneading through, pressing and rearranging until it feels like home again. I put things away in the kitchen and sweep the floors. I try to make space in rooms where the night is just outside the windows. I am medieval, huddled in an age where fire and home are arrayed to keep devils away.
I am Neolithic. I want to know what they sang to the earth to make it turn again. For my sun I have a light box. A cube the shade of a white-sky day.