Ride the wind, trick the light into thinking that it is not you, there beside the trees not blooming, the grass not green, the air only dreaming of warmth.
If you construct your world around these absences, this permanence, this fragrance of loss and this reflection of joy – you will be graced with all of it, tousled into your spirit along with fear, honor and awe. Laced into your skin with the blue ink of destiny’s tattoo.
The clouds appear when our eyes are closed, lowering themselves into our cozy chairs and warm blankets, giving the moon some privacy as she finishes dressing for her party later this week. I will escort her to the dance, as always, but just as certainly she will go home with someone else, someone more, let’s say, metaphysical.
Skin is the body’s ocean. The moon knows this. The waves are human touch, the reefs are the mind, the tides are love itself. Drowning is always an option, the lingering taste of strawberries, the touch without thinking, the dream without, once, ever dreaming it. Hundreds of miles from the sea, I taste salt on the air.
Thank you, Michael. You have the best compliments! I didn’t have the comment option set up for the first posts. I didn’t read the Vet poem. Text me the date and I’ll look it up.
I reply here about Neblina because there was no place to reply that I could see after that poem. ‘You’re basically walking through a cloud’. How I loved that closer coming after the definition. I said ahhh. It is finished now. Terrific. The last line, of course, is the iceing on the cake. This piece will taste good no matter how long it’s left on the bottom shelf in the way back of the fridge. Do you receive in your email the daily missive from The Writers Almanac? Check out the poem ‘At the Vet’s’.