Purple Trails to the Altar

So many violets.

The gradient tendency of midnight makes a play.

Music falls flat, no pun intended, having nothing to offer that which has now faded beyond anything recognizable.

Yet, birds at 5 a.m.

Yet, sentences that seem to embody the impossible tangerine licks of dawn.

In the dark, Kora startles a rabbit under the evergreen bush and in turn, startles herself. I make the assumption that we are pre-mosquito so I leave screen-less windows and doors open to let in the cooler air. I remember sleeping in an open air hut on Lamu Island in Kenya – the Indian Ocean lapping all night, soft breezes carrying whispers from around the word, the absence of electricity, people, and walls. I knew something then that I don't know now. Yes, beloved, memory vs. idea is a thing.

Suddenly, I am too fatigued to plant the garden. Marigolds border the seedless soil and chicken wire is coiled like a shiny, legless cannon. The seedlings are ready, standing at attention, growing in their tiny pots and trays. The new trellises need a little work but they lie unused in a half-assed stack near the back fence line. I don't know what is happening but I know it isn't really happening, so I ride the wave under my bed sheets as spring bursts forth onto the scene without my help.

I remember learning about Twenty Sentences from a heaven-on-earth teacher, and to this very day, it feels that they will never not be a part of how this world is parsed, examined and sewn back together. You are “they” because you are the sentences and you are all. Tulip heads fall clean off and three azalea sisters drop purple petals in a perfect trail to the altar. And the old dog begins to show signs of finishing this life in slow, quiet sleep. Yet, I live.