After a few days off Iâ€™m back to writing, fingering the blueprints that make me who I am. Iâ€™m going back to my childhood in the Colorado mountains, and to the stories of my parentâ€™s love and faith. Iâ€™m looking for meaning in their loneliness and isolation; I'm looking for maps that can help me to describe the context of my own life. Sometimes it feels impossible to make words describe the things my heart needs to say. Sometimes, barely, the right ones arrive on the page in the nick of time to save me from the heartache of knowing but not being able to explain.
Following the path of the dead
Opening and folding, flush petals move towards sun, where warm life stretches to the boundaries of stem pulling nectar upwards against gravity.
In the moonlight moths flock to the ghostly silhouettes of backlit petals. Their wings beat aimlessly, falling for the sham of appearances.
Hovering at the edges at twilight times, at dawn, worlds open and close like the finning gills of fish, pummeling the air like the call of a coyote.
Here perceptions shift ; the shape of the sea star gathered up becomes an interior space.