Those days, when the tides inside
crest and swell, and your soul, like the foam on the curl of a wave, rides it all
out, in the simplest of joys, high in the blue, close to the sky.
Those days when bad luck or a
black mood is nothing but the vaguest memory, nothing but ash in the fire of
your cairn, and you burn with absolute clarity, you burn with focus and
calm.
Those days when the words shake
out of your fingers like grains of salt
from the cellar, and you lick your fingertips, you press your lips to your palms,
and you taste of ink, and sweat, and you feel the heat of your own blood moving beneath
your skin, and you've never felt so real, so alive.
These days, these days...I wish I
could cast them, now, as they happen, cast them and press them into glasslike beads.
I wish I could wear them in a rosary or rope, a string of my longest, most beautiful
days spilling over my collarbones, over my breasts.
To handle them over and over, and return to that wonder. To roll each moment in a thumb.
I want to be higher, and better, and that part of me says Love every second...then let it go.
But the human part, the girl with a heart so soft you could nudge it, knuckle it, knead it like dough, says, Let me hold onto this for always; let me take my time with it, slow, slow...oh, let me keep this rush of love, this sudden golden flood of hope, of grace...
