The morning is damp Constellation of birdsong Punctuation by frog, by crow The Earth bends on itself and we grab hold: our feet to the sky, hair to the ground, stomachs in our chest There is surf, seagulls, the sound… Read More ›
The face on the moon is a mask, a caricature, a serial killer, no different than mine: it always looks sad, alone, surprised to find itself so far out there on its own.
The tide pushes against my shins and my feet disappear into the sand. I’m anchored here now, against the sea, with sky, sun, moon, mountains. The water curls around me, tugging, saying You are part of this, too.
In the dark, in the morning on my way to work passing the line of kids at the bus-stop: All their faces look like jack-o-lanterns by the glow and the flicker of their smartphone displays.
The night sky is full of stars Someone connected them all to make stories. Were the stories always there, Or did we make them so? Your life is a constellation: Find the corners, find the story.
The hook is a hold in the rock where I first put my foot when I want to climb.
Creator has put a smidge of pink on the cheek of the sky to dress herself for evening. She does so again in the morning, To cover the sins of the night.