All night the hard rain gave me dreams of a rising river inside my bedroom. In hopes of containing destruction, I tried to free the water's path, clearing personal belongings and opening doors. The flood didn't need me. And why can I never work a telephone in these dreams? My fingers always fumble to find the right number.
The wet tentacles of a chest-cold squeeze me awake. Aware of the long rains, I feel grateful. There is work my body cannot do, so this thirsty reprieve helps to buoy a girl going under. By now it is becoming obvious that tending soil and writing love letters is going to save the world. And maybe a little chocolate, too.
Breakfast with Kora before the house wakes. I float to the room of windows with citrus tea and a blanket in hopes of remaining unnoticed. From here I can see the pine tree I trimmed – whereby “trim” is a nice way of saying “cut” – yesterday; its fresh wounds seeping in morning's drizzle. The pine dust fell into me and I ate its bitter crumbs for its own good. Such judgement! God, mostly I'm just sitting here trying not to hear the pain I caused to this weeping evergreen.
Water itself, whose nature is as ultimate healer and destroyer, need not be aware. Yet I wrestle with how I hear the voice. . .
days and today / in the minutes of zero hour / untangling this watery braid for heaven's sake