the deep red cellophane entices opening
the label claims "lozenge may shorten duration of cold".
the lozenge dissolves/the tongue becomes dry and turns into a flapping piece of metal where once taste buds lived.
waking up to rememberance of jealousy, pangs of embarrassment. wanting to forgive, the solar plexus recoils and churns. and then, Handel’s Messiah rings out Halleluja reigning down as salve. the poison is the medicine.
by hand: blend brown and white sugars, whisk 2 adobe shelled eggs, turn in creamy peanut butter creating a honey liquid. fold in dry ingredients;
teaspoon dropped/cross-hatched. 14 minutes of waiting and wafting; 1 minute to eat with ice cold milk.
bright shining smile
self-awareness beyond your years
pouring out your Piscean fingers through your 7-string
into the gloaming;
and that will be that.
There were many smallstones offered me today;
the magic of a posse of starlings, twenty or more, navigating the wind and the light poles
and; he asks, "Can you feel that?", after these little patches are attached at one end to my sacrum and the other to some square-boxed circuitry system with diodes. I say, "Whoa", as my flesh starts to ripple. He says, "I've barely just turned it on." I keep realizing just how sensitive I am.
Then, I open up to the first poem from Mary Oliver's latest offering, "A Thousand Mornings"; Mary IS the smallstone.
oh christmas tree, oh christmas tree,
how well you served our house and welcomed all with your spice of pine.
one last long deep breath as I prepare you for your new home;
the earth awaits your company.