Morning measures the light for new horizons and hopeful dreams, reorganizing everything.
Lights turned on, walls painted, the inner museum prepared for visitation. This living work of art changes its display without consultation.
Somehow these dreams are written on ancient doors and walls, reverberating with their knowing, long before they were recognized as truth. Breathing becomes an exchange with a larger cause.
Struggling with what to say, and how to go there. Some have boldness and willingness in their blood. I'm still learning my singular species, but I know the spirit must be housed in a living temple.
I fumble my way to the fire and learn, more drawn to the sun than a dying day, half-lived and shriveled, in a state of maligned decay.
Negotiating fiercely with the unknown, I cannot permit death to take me this way. Instead, I open the animal of doubt inside this crunchy rib cage so I can smell my own blood and feel the pulse of my own heart beat.
There are many dawns that lay before use, sprawling out as receptive wombs, asking us to plant our respective seeds to grow the gardens of the future. And now, this task: to make the selection of what I deem worthy of life, and let nature have its way with me, as she does with all of us.
The soil is made of rust and bones and tears from chapters of old. Rich with fables and story-tellers' homes, turned into planting boxes and grave yards. We know the way head if we be willing to bow and listen to the song that pleases the symphony of creatures who make up the organism of this earth.
Suspended, we wait, and by waiting, we know how to act. And by acting, we learn what we become. This is the magic of the unfolding of time.