Connecting Dots

Connecting the dots and talking to myself. She just came in from the orchard of stones. What happened to her pucker and smile as I grew weary of splashing my ink? I'm not inclined to think that trees weep or that the moon is cold. The shadow on the wall is not me at all. Perhaps a planchette of omens for old men. Maybe just a house mouse dressed in a sheet waiting for cheese.  But her rocking chair creaks on its axis spinning in my mind.