Is it time to tell the story of the dog in the city or of the deer trapped inside the chain link corridor which ends at the train tracks?
I was thinking about tea leaves this morning. Tea leaves and leaf prints. And then I thought tree leaves. I’d like to be one of the few people who read tree leaves. I feel like I should be able to understand them. They are no more haphazard than runes, than cards drawn and laid on a table. It makes me think that there’s some agreement between the wind and the trees to lay them on the ground just so.
My true love only asks and insists that I be me, with all the iterations of me, including hair, smells, bad attitude as well as happy, creative and sexy. And I believe that’s the first time anyone’s really wanted that from me.
I wonder what the land looks like to the birds when they’re flying; when they aim somewhere, when they’re following a route only they understand. Maybe they see a landscape anchored by the tallest trees or water or food. I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.
I do not miss those single days when I left a house I did not belong to, feeling like a stranger everywhere.
I had forgotten the joy of flowers.
I can choose to walk in the sun and some days I can just walk, and that’s good enough.