A Lover's Leap

Redbirds in the pines make themselves known at dawn. Their redness elicits attention and yet, soothes something always aching in me. I dreamed a lover's leap off Sapphic cliffs. I woke higher up than before.

I remember lake wind billowing my bed sheets hung over the deck railing and also being helplessly (hopelessly?) lost in attics. Beloved taught me to write letters to ancestors and I found a fire breath, stoking embers and light. It's amazing I am not a fire sign given my propensity for tinder and flames.

A long drive back with Mom. I wrote that sentence before the drive happened, which is an example of how the image of me interacts with the image of her. Begin again. Choose differently. Perhaps, then, I am not really mourning B's new residence status. And I am not really wondering it might ever feel totally undone.

Stain the deck.
Continue to harvest.
Tell autumn to delay just a little longer.
Find a tea kettle.
Give the dog a bath.
Hang red bed sheets on the line without a hint of challenge to the cardinals which always be luminous and alive in front of all attempts to work at anything on this life's surface.

Sunday makes a list; I check it twice.