Sipping Higher Air

On the morning walk, a rain burst had its say before we were ready. Cold and uncomfortable became acceptable; that's how acquiescence works. I tell myself all kinds of things on walks like this. Everything is acceptable. Everything belongs. We tap it out to a pileated beat. The writing doesn't have much to say these days, choosing instead to stay tight within buds or buried deep in root. Spring's busy and renewed unfurling matches a poet's yearning to give, yet all that can be heard is the dissonant squawking of her silent juxtaposition. Perhaps it is enough to unbundle the cold weight of winter, giving gratitude its full way in every step. My god, I am so thankful.

warm air and cherry blossoms - love's nomination of me for queen

My essence knows how to follow the lark these days. Sipping the higher air changes the view. But there is always a home to which one must return. A nest made of shredded maps awaits on the cooling forgiveness each departing day. Tucked in and settled, trees cradle the obvious secret I pretend to hear: rest and be done.

Hot tea waiting, my wet clothing hangs over the side of the bathtub. A day begins with Michigan water. And a song I cannot unhear. And a gift I can hardly bear.

I yield.