Letters to the Sea

You used to show up when I was ready to surrender in complete exasperation. Songs – prisms – metaphors held in the tension of desire.

C. asked if I was tired of suffering, because if I don't want to suffer any longer, I don't need to. Fuck. Why is every one smarter than I am?

Dear Icarus, the cost of flight comes not from incineration; the cost is in the landing.

A gradual sea of color fading in sunset. Oh the sea, the sea.

In the fall, I imagine building fires with broken apple boughs and wearing an oversized flannel shirt that smells like sweat and the outdoors around my cold shoulders. Acorns and curated stones in the chest pocket.

The sea – often confused with the light from clear October skies. Blue and light, which owns nothing, and yet, has everything.

My back on this planet, my breasts tip skyward, opening to descending starlight. Dew at my fingertips, grass tickling my neck. Hercules' Knot on my wrist. I must empty; I must find the truth in this silence.

I find myself praying in the garden lately. The intention to pray is not conscious, yet words simply leave, knees hit the dirt and my head bows. Tears come easily here.

I wonder if the plants can tell.