A buoyancy today, which is unexpected after so little sleep. Two opossum growled and hissed throughout the night under the back deck; an everyday creature making an unknown compilation of sounds. Were the sounds themselves terrifying without context or did I automatically paint a picture of hideous creatures, mouths open in battle, waiting to tear each other apart, v-shaped bite by bite? I don't know. And at 3:20 a.m., it doesn't really matter.
Afterwards, another tornado dream. Why is there always someone who will not listen to my pleas to take cover? I wake later than usual, sweating and quite sure that the molecules of childhood trauma never quite slough off and die. Somehow I go about the morning as if nothing ever happened. Isn't it kind of like that? Some part always remains, no matter what it looks like on the outside.
I walked ahead of a cauldron of clouds, surprised by the cooler start. The woodpecker seemed to mirror my long exhales and I was happy for the company. The day asks of me, yet I resist. A creamy love-seat in the room of windows wants me to sit all day to read greater works. To write better letters. To listen to life and death and the inky myrrh before and after them both.
the sentences still soothe
lifting my face above the water
that I may breathe -
the writing of me