…one must be more specific
There is beauty in ice sculptures, black leaves, sand granules and zebra mussel shells
Someone carved a number into the willow
I wonder what it meant and how long it’s become piece of the bark
Are they dead and buried, the secret etched inside the tree’s history?
I cannot say
I had not seen before
The biting winter air keeps me alert, alive noticing the minute details
I slow my pace, paying no attention to time and space, focusing on the grays above
and the black ripples before me
When dreaming of a beach one must specify the horizon
So, this just happened. Some days it’s better to keep your mouth shut, and the snarky remarks to yourself. Who knows where I’ll be seven months from now? Who can say what’s in store? Not me, no not at all. I would not presume. I am lucky, wishing away my lucky stars. I must remember to ration some, as luck fades to black; grey drizzle, freezing temperatures, crushing storms. The sun shines white-bright, autumn light beautiful. My most favorite September time of year. I could bottle it up, the 70 degree haven, store it deep in the recesses of the brain. Seems so cold, cruel to take away my aqua blue in motion. Lupe and I are depressed. Already. Who I am kidding, she hates the water and I barely went in all summer. Muscle memory. It’s the relentless muscle memory that ceases to forget. Won’t, can’t, refuses to give up on the joy. The uninhibited laughter that flowed so freely as a child. Freedom intertwined dancing between molecules, limbs and cells. Meditating, I sit cross-legged on the bottom of the pool, while ten million gallons of water hover all around. I feel light, lighter than I ever have before. A cool comfort to the soul. Seven months come and go. Luck be a lady, I’ll be here. Waiting out the storm.