Reconsidering Windchimes

Saturday yawns as I think of today's unbearable blue.

At Lake Michigan, I saw the pines up on the hill. Too far away to save me from the perfect sky, they waved. But maybe that is exactly how one is saved from so far beyond the reach of rootedness. If I'm honest, the only real lesson for today is that I wither without the shade. And it isn't pretty.

Sunburned lips and freckled reflections recalling the way a body feels below the surface. I didn't swim because I didn't take off my clothes and I didn't take off my clothes because I don't know how.

In the relentless light bearing down, I cannot see – or be – myself. Maybe that is the point. But more and more, all these letters and words and sunny days and perfumed offerings merely fold and unfold a blank sheet of paper.

I keep saying this is more simple now, yet each thread I untangle is attached to another and another. I'm trying, friend. Tying?

Last night, hanging in the air, the woodsmoke mixed with lilies. I reconsidered my stance on wind chimes. And immortality. And the usefulness of a book I refuse to write.

But mostly, alone in the dark, I fall into the closeness that my arms and chest cannot complete. This I know how to do.