softening ovenbird Alone in the morning, I prod the softness of my belly, feel the disgrace of age turning my thighs to porridge. I watch the way I spread like spilled tea, widening and thinning all at once, running over the edges of everything, nothing contained the way it once was. I am the disappointment of ice cream melting on the sidewalk. I am grease splattered on a favourite dress. I walk an hour a day just to maintain some vague cohesion. I should do more. A running vest maybe. Something heavy to make me strong. Something heavy to keep me grounded. But life is pottery in reverse. We emerge from the kiln and we are thrown and spun into formless potential, clay called back to the earth. 260814 what's it to you? who go blather from