The silence between the notes

In other days, it was a softer fall. Rustling, slipping, drifting From branch to earth. It was a peaceful fall, A gentle death. Comforted by the soil Which had nourished them Through roots and branches. But now? Do they know? Do they see what some will meet? The hard-formed ground that was not made for them. The grey. The black. The white. The dirt which cannot nourish Or cradle them as they fade. Do they feel what this day brings? Do they long for other days?

The day after my last blog, I came home to the tail end of a burglary. I've thought about blogging once or twice since then but the only topic I could really focus on was the irony of being robbed 24 hours after writing about being so sensitive. As I sit here on New Years day, I'm realizing that I have learned a lot from these burglars. A housefull of policemen might feel like CSI, but it's not as much fun when it's real. After a burglary, you become supremely aware of everyone who drives too slowly past your house. Guilt is a surprising emotion.  Somehow I still feel guilty for "losing" some of my special jewelry. Thieves take more than your possessions; they can also take your security and ability to sleep at night. Even if you think a room wasn't entered, search it anyway. They probably entered it just long enough to find your video camera and social security card. My sketching skills are not good at all! And I cannot remember how to draw all the jewel