I've been waking so early, this day cranky, again. And this morning, last of morning glory blue, so sweet that birds laugh over my carefully hung laundry. Yard cat from the alley stays while I hang.
Autumn crawlers are thinking they've found a winter place to lodge but are now swept from the empty cupboards. Time for those to find other lodgings. This I decide.
I've made tickets home to the valley of snow. Peaks there are so invigorating, life always returns to right. Challenges deem workable.
I find her hovering around sleep, tired from too many years, the vanilla light has squeezed between roof tops, soaking her repose. My heart and mind take snapshots. Marking exquisite moments. And I'm lighting fires.
Heard your voice as you read an other's poem this radio morning. You forgot, for those few moments, all the other pressing things. So did I. We both crawled close to find the gentle undercurrent encoded in the lines, spring loaded for connection.
A Promise to myself. To go back to script, pocket and commit to memory. Add motion, lend my need to sing, down next to the river, resplendent in the the way that some poetry is.
Then, bring these days into the score. Ootheca in verse.