Porous in a Prayer

A clergy of pines interceding on my behalf. How porous I become within a prayer.

It's starting to hurt now, if I am honest. A dull ache creeps back in to remind the golden child that maybe all is not already perfect. Tell me you know what I mean.

Starting over. Fasting. Fighting fire with fire. The devil takes a swipe without landing a punch, though he doesn't need to; he can watch me air box with a satisfied smirk.

At the flea market, she introduced me to Jim because “we might have a few things in common.” We discussed plant medicine, growing, cooking with cannabis and growing mushrooms in sterile incubator box. Kyle walked away from the conversation and waited on a nearby bench.

There is a sorrow in working the garden alone. Asking for help that I am not going to get is one way of avoiding the truth.

Spruce tip ice cream. Lavender in the wild. Sun at certain angles melting the pain.

I just don't know what to do anymore – for now, for this life, for this love.

My hands are in the water, sun on my shoulders and I'm going under.

Dissolution is not possible; now what?