The arthritis in my knee—

—subsides a little; still, after sitting for a few moments, my leg cannot support my full weight. I limp about the house as an old man.
One of the transplanted irises finally prepares for blossoming, after numerous seasons without flowers.
95/ A moment of idleness, of waiting. So Pan makes paper airplanes out of drafts of old poems, old journal entries, folding the corners back neatly to ensure a soft gliding motion across the room, into the afternoon sun, away from the momentary pause of the clock ticking to itself, as the universe exhales.


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