Aflame

“Fruit crop loss expected.”

At 3:16 a.m. I think of the one who thinks of the One.

Acute air and shivery starlight burns my lungs. Coffee warms as the dog investigates leftover vapors from night creatures.

Nothing stirs.

For her 21st birthday, a cake, secondhand clothes, and the promise that she'll move home in a few weeks.

Older but not too old, the woman I am fills the whole house and with her, the others will be altered accordingly.

Speaking of altars – violets, bees and 4 a.m. robins.

To write is to reach and in doing so, I see my mother's hands. She reminds me that she went back to school in her 40's with 4 kids at home. Okay, you win.

What is wholly true fills composed space in a way which leaves hardcore silence ringing in the ears. Uncompromising peace is the new master bending low to whisper, “yes, this is what you want, child.”

She and her doubts. Her fire. Her glory.

Dawn turns up like a dusty lantern.

Oatmeal with apple slices and peanut butter.

And now, near the end, a cardinal aflame in the azalea bush, below the pine, give unto thee the last sentence.