Thinking of Thirst and Hydration
Time comes and goes like waves on an ocean: many ripples glide over rivers. Two sides deep, my ankles run red with red rock clay. My toes are burning flames of vermillion. My heels, a fleshy orange broken open by sandals and miles of flirting with rolling sand dunes and hot glass.
I am brought down again by rain, flushed into rivers and rocks and tiny cracks in doorways. I am relentless in driving whole cities into droughts and then drowning them in black storms.
I feel like I’m too tired to write today. My work day started at 6am and I shake my head in mirrored wonder at the many miniscule pieces lying at my feet: a yellow parking ticket from Colorado, two mysterious keys that I don’t know or understand, an old wooden dresser filled with mismatched socks and a bag of turquoise.
I don’t even know what I’m writing. I’m just freewriting what words need to be spilled: my mouth an open telescope sings me to sleep every evening under a belly of storms where a hibernating Northern bear cuts me open.
Hopefully I dream again tonight. Hopefully I ream in light. Eyes bright open wide at a blinking cave and listen. Sleep holds me close, my own arms love a world for me, no fear of self-love and waves of feeling: I am a winter sleep destined for rest and awakening.
