Little Cups of Distance

Between waking at 2:00, 3:15 and finally 4:00 a.m., I dreamt about an owl. The image lingered long enough for me to search: what do owls mean in dreams? Sometimes a secret; sometimes death. There is a sense that I am wiser for having received the message.

Michigan weather continues to live up to its reputation for being unsettled and chaotic. Freeze – thaw – freeze; bones and roads lead you back to repair. For repair? When neighbors bring down the old oak, its landing shakes all the windows and floorboards. This tree is gone but you wait on the greening of others because such a faith has been earned. Warm passage of breath and blood is coming. The fall of our mouths into the earth's deepening tilt. The drift of our gaze into detonated stars. Sunlight browsing for freckles. It's okay to ache for summer. Let your heat swaddle the bare trees and bring February's frozen lakes to a boil. How else would we intercept this lack of light?!

Lately, veggie roll sushi. Sticky rice sits full in the mouth replacing an acute hunger. Turmeric for the inflammation. Meds for the pain and fatigue.

East-West highways painted blue on the wrist. Heaven waits on a kind of touch – the trace of a finger – eyelashes against the cheek – lips skimming. In the little cups of distance, snow fills to the brim. We women are the dangerous ones. When self aware, we will devour you whole. Is it enough to die happy?