Slipping Through the Net

A ladybug in my red wine causes an involuntary “oh!” Chit-chat continues as if nothing amazing occurred. Small little blips in the background noise of conversations become a reminder of hearts attached to beliefs which descend from my own. Yet I wonder how much longer I can let it sip from my sense of space in the world.

Spring's delay has thrown everything into the spin cycle – spitting out random blooms here and flooded fields there. In that way, June feels like a stranger. I don't yet know what spring wants to say in its reach to arrive.

While making the bed I bruise my shin on the corner of the bed frame. Birds begin their song before 5 a.m. and it makes waking so lovely. I wonder if he can hear the floor creak as I move from side to side, straightening and tucking blankets. I wonder if he says, “Oh, she is awake, doing her thing,” or does he filter out the sounds in the attempt to sleep further into the morning? The things we no longer know slip through the net that holds it all together.

Lately a few cardinals pose in the corner of my vision. They arrive as a bleeding flash but leave as a soothing salve. Birds as messages. Red as life. My gratitude is quiet but intact. On these cool nights, especially around the fire, my countenance wanders . . .

east towards sunrise / north into the origin of pine / into God's gaze / blue