Soft Red Portal to the Cosmos

January dawn lends its own kind of blue. Windows sigh with light as the world gets ready for the daily grind.

These silent moments spread like honey and a galactic exhale gives rise to the transmission living in my heart. What is within will save me and it will save you too, if you allow it.

They begged her to share the truth, but she was not believed. She wept over this vulnerability and sorrow. How long must the feminine power and wisdom be discounted despite having been touched by Love Itself? How long will our bodies be the only thing that is true? A red thread as a reminder that the message is true and worth has nothing to do with it.

Sparrows flit around shopping cart wheels and empty plastic bags wave from dirty snowbanks. We've forgotten how to be one. Human prophets are not heeded in their own lands but neither are the emissaries from outside the borders.

My godmother will not wear a mask in the car with me, so now we will no longer be able to discuss Mary Magdalene or the ways in which the Divine might have breasts and a soft, red portal to the cosmos.

Winter tea cups and icicles to stir.

Candles as spells or prayers or light-on-command.

Dad's vinyl records wait in three boxes next to the desk. The stories they tell want to be written. Are 131 chapters too many? And not one of them is Dylan.