I’m tired of writing facts. This is going on. That is going on. I want to write dapple and splinters of silverfish at my feet when the waters come in.
bubbles of joy and overwhelm that fizzle and steam and lift, depending on the day.
the rush of the heart against the ribcage when the tears rise, a wild irrational thrust towards escape
cold fingers typing, calloused hands barely registering on touch screens these days. i may as well have lifeless clay in digit form. but then again, i do not. there is life in this clay, and i’m in reformation mode again.
(at times anyways, because sometimes i am also too much with my couch)
the heartbreak of november is heavy with me. the light itself brings me to tears. the cry of the newly red leaf, the flutter of the gold, as they fall, food for my next year’s garden.
i feel that veil is thin, yes, and it is the grey boundaries between past and future in which i feel myself becoming a flock of birds. the neither here nor there, an inability to be present for it.
clay, sodden ground, mud and how much value do i put on a clean shoe anyhow?
there is so much going on, and nothing. and i love you, and i’ll see you soon.