Climbing the mountain in moon's shadow – last night's letter.
The tornado dream hits before dawn leaving me alone in a pool of sweat and silent paralytic screams. I absorb fear and it is more than fair.
Wednesday's light is soft green glints casting off any constraints. My midwest living room shimmers with pines and Great Lakes. June opens my bathrobe to summer. Perhaps it would be better if I tightened my lips around the nothing that must be said. I would still hum the murmurings though.
I press my hips against the sink to do dishes and notice how the rhododendron I just trimmed looks like the destroyed Death Star. A smile is a form of resting. Like trawlers gliding on glass in and out of the fog, the remains of the conversation appear and disappear all day. Everything is a little bit hushed.
Have you ever considered how love is the act of feasting on one's own heart? Emily and her love of baking bread, writing on kitchen papers, feeding those with room in their ribcage. How the baker sometimes starves!
Green tea, a hard boiled egg, and strawberries. I ask for bird feeders but get squirrels instead. Mama Blue Jay dives at the dog to protect the nest but so far she leaves me alone. How long can you hold your breath? The daisies keep their color private a little while longer.
Again the inarticulate rises. Again the northern winds settle. Again summer arrives to lick winter's porcelain plate clean.