Kingfisher As My Heart

November ending.

As it turns out, grey can also glisten.

Trout, pavement, frosted rooftops.

A prayer – a wish – allow me to be worthy.

Is there further to fall when you are on the floor?

Question asked; now the answer will follow.

Sometimes dawn is enough.

He said, “it's not the waking; it's the rise.”

Milkweed astray, faded goldenrod, meadows bleary with seed.

Spiritual lover in human drag.

Let me touch you.

Kingfisher as my heart.

In the winter meadow I sat on damp earth – not quite frozen – not quite life sustaining. The sun angled just so, dilating my pupils to the size of a pinhead. I took a photograph with the intention of beaming a message. Then deleted it. December breezes bite but with sunlight finding skin, all but the papery rustle of a chafing summer fades to nothing. An hour is a minute. Emptied to see. Who was there; who was here? You know the answer. I know it too. Yet again: but how?