robins

good morning spring, again. from the ancient art of dreaming i just arisen, might take to baking cakes. how pleasure does unfold, thin lines of me moving out among the places that have agreed to another day.

the spongy me delights in discovery while the waterwashed stones of my underbelly assemble until the outline of the seer becomes nearly more than a shadow. i make my dali list in a logical fashion, and a glimpse of the sun sends my heart romping into worlds i long assumed dead.

if there could be a deeper explanation of possibility, if we could permeate together the heart of this mystery that in silence and song, belong to responsible abandon, there might only remain the sweetest memory of light. with two hands the exploration continues, i close my eyes, then open.

my tethers to this earth have come from far to play. i think about a river of words rushing through the space between mountains and a shelved dictionary. today i want to be an anonymous observer in the middle of everywhere. i turn in my "responsible for responding" pass to wander unencumbered. perhaps RuMi invaded me between the soothsayers and irony of my dreaming. this orgasmic breathwork is line and shade as i organize plans for the new orchard.

it must be the growing up that allows me to sit quietly folding laundry as i wait for thunder.

n