There will always be sky days: intervals through which we stroll, light-footed and easy; lifetimes that fill up with cloud expanse, then pull back the curtain to blue, bluster, and breeze — autumn fully here, a current of winter in the air. Then there are, too, the ground days: those downtrodden, dark, and damp spans you trudge through, deadheaded, as if legs were sodden logs, your head a block of cement in the current, tree roots pulled from the sludge at every step. Worse, still, the empty ghost days: numb corridor afternoons, uninhabited; shadows and light, flimsy blinds fluttering, no one home. Trance to the store for milk two days this side of souring. Litany of lists, want ads. Lost hours stalking the cage. I want to be a Green Man walking. To bring sky and ground with me as I move in my life, not dragging them behind in a storm wake, but carrying their elements within, a whole season of life in my diurnal blood, astride the day and in time — feet gnarled tree roots, head frosted with turning leaves, heart pumping out the morning’s birdcall, breath a breeze after a day of deadening heat — to come to the scarred table of the world (avid, grateful) and share in its bounty.