Waiting on Trillium

I open in the wake of one full day of sunlight in such a way that now I sleep under a blanket of Trillium.

It is as simple as breathing to be destroyed by the unexpected beauty of a day that doesn't belong. Yet the gurus and the enlightened walk with their hearts forward even in the mundane slog of drudgery. I've read the books, drank the Kool-Aid, but slanting shadows still make a difference!

The writing boils like two-day-old coffee. Acidic. Thick. It used to have a home I knew. Now the words push the forest floor like a bloated slug making a slow path of slime and life.

I didn't protect the rose bush this year. This and other ways I let lovely beings down. When I cry about it, I am like an empty church at night – hollow and waiting for the congregants to make me holy.

When choosing seeds, one forgets about the wilds. We are dedicated to tending the domesticated. One way to shift the expectation of cultivation may be to simply be who I am. I can do anything for a time, but I must follow the scent of wilderness when it comes to me.

The temperature rises to twice the seasonal norm. Neighbors pour out of hibernation, coughing and wheezing from quarantine. They take advantage of the warmth to rake and remove months of winter's slough. I sit still in the sun, a thief for what I want. Who can have me anymore?

The sea is still and rough, swirling with invitation and foreboding flirtation. And I sit on his shores, half in for the chance to feel an untamed embrace, up to my neck.

leave it be / return –
I can only follow
the essence
of free