Water and Water Again

All day heat builds and the sky piles into lumbering elephants. I pace, just wanting it to storm already. If it won't rain, I must water. And water again. Squash blossoms match the yellow-orange slants of day slicing into me. Yesterday I cut my finger while chopping vegetables. The ER doctor said I was lucky. Do you know how many T's and R's are required when typing the story? The lesson is slow down or type less or order pizza next time.

There is no distance as the moonlight and I keep falling. We descend into each other, catching our reflections on the way down. This reflection is life, beloved. I need to see who I am so that I may believe.

The fan whirls full blast yet it is not enough to keep beads of sweat from beginning at my hairline and trickling down my jaw and neck. My breasts collect their own reservoir of summer. How delicious it would be to slip into the lake, mixing waters. Most assuredly, that very thought is my downfall – swimming, free, touched and buoyed by water, floating into one who is also invited. Thirsty. Feet stirring in the cooler depths. Arms smoothing the racing ripples of heartbeats. Nearing one another until only water is between. It's a thought that behaves like a memory, filled with heightened senses and acute knowing. And yet . . . and yet.

Because there is relationship, there is existence. Do we please one another or has that passed? Am I now a body looking at itself in the shiny morgue ceiling? God, how does anyone put up with my dramatic bent? Surely there is divinity in the jest.

Cicadas begin to rattle which, maybe to most, only indicates summer's full sail. For me, it is a reminder that this light is only passing through. Bull frogs banjo their way to sunset as woodpeckers roll their cadence on oak. I know there is no where to go. But that doesn't mean I haven't already been here before.