Sheets ripple in white drifts over legs and thighs and my sleeping side. These days one can rest in that which follows night, light after dark. Even a blackened marathon produces a glittering reward for endurance.
I stir because I am reminded
Lately, a soundless voice is better. Yet I still open a reading that isn't given, like the sparrow tapping at my kitchen window. Stop watching. Waiting? Silly girl, no pleasure is innocent.
The yellow archangel tremble with bees and the quickening of spring's desire towards completion. Orioles fall to the ground, locked in a mating dance; I stir my coffee and blush a little. Do I even mention the frogs? We are living and dying all in the same breath, respiring towards a truth that grows up through chapel floorboards and cracked sidewalks and tumor-ridden organs. But I don't want to know any of this.
Rather, I want to float on fuzzy seeds to become fodder for nests or next century's field of wildflowers or tomorrow's nectar for the delicate grace that always returns to live. To live. To live.
Spring can remind one to forget, if the slant of light is just right. That is all the waking I need.