Trumpet vine bowers drape the catalpa in emerald carcanets, lustrous and wet with morning dew dripping on scuffed sandpaper footprints in crushed pink stone. Look up! Blue on green, jays flit and preen, laughing.
Monday, May 25, 2015
The multiplicity of succor within a storm, if you remember how to tip your gaze up and back into the rain. Artemis Ephesus of clouds: not the Untouched Huntress but the All-Mother, many-breasted, pendulous, thirst-slaker. Those who study the surface things say she was born in steep gradients in moisture, temperature, wind shear across anvil cloud boundaries. An unfortunate reduction of complexity, I think. Are they afraid to name her fecundity spanning time, her bronze and marble idols, her uncanny gray-green skies?
Sunday, May 24, 2015
The conditions are right for a leap. I’m saturated, can’t absorb much more, and I’ve got no runneled karsts to sluice the extra off into some aquifer. It doesn’t matter, though. Rain keeps coming, sheeting down the caliche under my skin, scouring fossils and calcite crystals bare: lightning glimpses of my ancient, lime-white corruscations as I'm tossed downstream, maytagged, pinned in the flood.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
How brackish those inland seas we carry within us, and how sweet the salt memory of those tides. This is all I can do, now: fix myself a cup of coffee, watch the honey-thread spin itself in as I stir, catch it on the tip of my finger and lick it off. A taste of that mineral elixir, and I recall how the berry stains set on your hands: sweat as mordant fixing the juice, dyeing the memory, our skin damp as the inland sea.