In the pale crook of a birch a robin threading its song through the fluttering green of newly furled leaves makes my heart tremble.
Things are up in the air, and Iâ€™m holding my breath waiting for unrecognized brilliance. Itâ€™s like Iâ€™m occupying the thin space between air and water in a drinking glass, where the whole world is reflected in a line.
I spend whole days skimming, flitting, careening. In my molskine Iâ€™ve started writing again, finger bones gripping in quiet concert, the lead becoming a rush of loopy js and ys, answering the same questions each morning: what do I feel? What do I want?
Today I donâ€™t know how to get myself started with the rest of my life. Today I am trying to catch up with myself. Trying to be something.
Across the sky clouds the color of cinnamon remember the fiery circle of the sun, then draw together close like stitches over a wound; gathering indigo, gathering twilight, gathering the night.
*** What do you feel? What do you want? Right now. Today. Right this moment.