Once again I am at my little writing desk that belonged to my grandmother, originally used for a sewing table, asking the wisps of air that dance before me. Only, questions come slower than they did just the day before. Is it the pollen that befuddles? Age? Or the moon not being in proper formation with the stars? Whatever question is asked, perhaps the answer lies in the yellow butterweed I see on the forest floor across the valley from where I sit and wonder.