Over at The Coffin Factory, I read a new story.
Because I want to walk out the door of a dark Finnish farmhouse and deep into November morning fields, where leaves would have fallen if there’d been any trees not yet chopped for burning, and maybe it is not quite cold enough yet for snow but you can smell it, can’t you, the snow coming on, and the smoke of the burning trees from the chimney behind you, you can smell that too, and in the distance while walking I want to see my grandfather digging something in the hard dirt, potatoes maybe, rutabaga,…
joseph riippi 