To start again.
Glacial trust begins stacking stones on the shore. No longer do talismans perform the work of grounding but they do make artistic pillars before the gateless.
The daisy faces are still tightly held, but not for too much longer. Soon their blooms will overlap each other in the breeze – a poetic peek-a-boo if you ask me.
Lately, everyone has a gravelly voice, except Eiseley. Reading him puts me floating on summer waters right before I sink in self-doubt. Uneasy amalgams, he says. Splashed pollen on the breasts of hummingbirds, too. He makes the growth of grass a type of foreplay that dampens the page.
My bones move like an enemy.
My mind expecting victory in death.
How the fullness of reunion forces bloody knees and hands.
That is where I'm going now.
Sort of alone, but not completely.
Maybe one must stop treading water and get back to the damn shore already! This is me, flopping onto landfall after exhausting all other ways to cross the sea.
From here, Lake Michigan's sunset takes the cake and if I'm honest, I don't blame it one bit.