A gray sky pulls down close, full of vapors yet to fall. Funny how the scene changes with seasons, some things stay the same for years and years and others cannot help but bloom and seed and decay.
I can hear the heater clicking and the sound of someone’s power tools out the window, down the street. The radiator heat doesn’t exactly belong but doesn’t exactly not.
There is this saying I cannot get out of my head that goes like this: Honor the space between no longer and not yet. (Nancy Levin)
A rumble of airplane, metal cutting through cloud.
Thunder rolling by on delay.
You notice what is here with you and cringe a little at what it might have been. Not so long ago, sick days, numb evenings sliding into nights obsolete.
Thank the heavens for souls able to save themselves, whatever it is that does it.
Thank God for whatever God is supposed to be, whatever believing is or isn’t.
I wear the labels when they help and shed them quick breezily as soon as they feel the least bit too small.
Gray skies falling all around in pieces. Lavender tea in a rose china cup, cooling on the windowsill.
Wind scattered elegant through trees.
This mind and this body finally brutally beautifully free.