Friday, June 9, 2017

June blue

The quality of morning light changes. Where in February these skies were bent a China blue, now they pitch and glow a powdery hue beneath an overlay of kirigami birch leaves. Crickets join in the morning birdthrong, a whistle-twitch chatter of new day, where winter pressed them silent. 

The ladies are now comfortable in my presence and I in theirs at the odd a.m. company meeting in Her backyard.

We take tally, a cost/benefit analysis. The world is less kind than once imagined. The arms I choose now, hungry for authenticity and passion. 

All these from whom I sense abandonment were not present in the first place. They were waving limbs in the ghostly distance. Always. I was often my own comfort. I've not been abandoned, merely ever alone.

And thus, when I answered a call for friendship and discovered the downy soft hollows of my weakened heart filled, I must remember that the eyes and their judgments are a mirror of barren efforts.

I was withering and  I answered a call. 

The judgments are empty projections. Nothing more. I did not fall. My feet never left the ground. 

She bubbled up blue and craving the empty curves of my hopelessness—a cradlespace, morning light and the bearable heft of my arms. 


Monday, June 5, 2017