Off Trail and Off Book

Frozen moon over frozen roads.

The neighbor's wind chime sounds off in the dark morning. It always startles me a little. It's too slippery to walk the dog and she is not happy about it. Mondays: it's a mood.

Poets pickax their words inside and out of temples and forests. Nobody spills ink anymore but if they could, maybe we would know a poet by the stains on their hands. Though no proof is usually necessary. When two poets orbit one another, seas roar in excitement and the gods gather to send their messages through us for mortal translation. We drink from wooden bowls and dream about the hermitage off trail and off book.

Lovenotes are sent up the bloodstream and indictments are thrown from breakwaters and cliffs. Who made me who I am, She asked and answered: I did.

I go to the gym so early that later in the day, it almost feels like a fever dream. It's mostly men using a lot of space, so I had to learn how to own and claim my own compass and land. I can see they forget about this joint ownership. I now enjoy reminding them.

To grow in honesty is reclaim some sort of lost or hidden member of my body. I'm flexing it every where I go now and the effects are remarkable. So I ate the poisoned apple and so I slept a while; maybe I needed it. But I'm awake now and Demeter shares her closet of dresses with me.