To Right Again

Spices from last night's supper hang in the air, reliving as a memory of wanting.

To begin again is what we do because while we are unchanging at the river's source, we flow downhill and gather along the way.

Every night lately the same dream arrives just before dawn – the one where I set the hill on fire but this time, there is no judgement. No fallout.

In the morning, blue berries, blue jays, blue sky. Am I Blue? You could say that.

As a kid I used to wake up in the middle of the night and tip-toe around the dark kitchen in order to forage for food. It wasn't always about stealing food that I wasn't supposed to have. Sometimes one just wants to eat without it all being annotated. Even now I drift through the dark looking for food to take back to bed. These and other tales I haven't yet told.

Geese in pairs. A train moaning. The hush of a church-town's sabbath.

We outgrow our skin and maybe even, our kin? Transcending separation has everything and nothing to do with the red bird. They warn of snow this week and I take it all very seriously. Don't forget to tend the altar, beloved. I'll bring the flowers; you bring the bread.