In the recycling.
Another stack.
Not fixed, able to come undone.
This weekend's harvest, along with another big bowl of grapes.
And...a really great poem, "Concerning the Prayer I Cannot Make" by Jane Mead, found in the Poetry Unbound newsletter.
"I must have seen the way/the clouds just slide/under the rusty arch-/without snagging on the bolts,/how they are borne along on the dark water-"