Their soft spoken language that I couldn’t comprehend crawled into the room of my youth on the second floor with its slanted sky and the sliding glass with no balcony.
The aroma hiding in their ceramic mugs informs me where the sun is.
I greeted them before I chased it.
I chased the sun with the beings in the pond.
I chased the sun with the tire swing that the grandfather tree wore.
I chased the sun with magic rocks.
I chased the sun with sticks and stings for fishing.
I chased the sun with the old horse.
I chased the sun with my twin.
I chased the sun, knowing it will never chase me back.
I chased the sun.
You came home drenched in pine and I could smell the river on you
You swam with Ancient rocks and souls of your youth
A stream so immense, your heart beats with its rhythm
For the fear and love
Your heart beats with its rhythm
A grief drowning silver light paints the flesh on each bone
Storyteller tips paint that silver light in, replacing the chains tied to your expression
And pulling the anchor out from your heart
But that same silver light feeds the sea inside my being
And I wait for your storytellers to calm me
I wait for your sail
I wait for a different wind
I wait for your breath under the silver light
The Sea and wind fell in love when the earth felt new. A young child of spring changed the season of routine and the summer grew with everlasting blood and dew. The sea held me close and the wind combed my hair. I have his nose but her eyes with its glare. But we, the three musketeers with a family full of love, were pulled away from each other by the steering rock above. My father, now the sea, is still in my lungs and my mother, the now stationed wind, his way she longs
Her hair, damp from a broken river carried by dust, trapped the smoke from her lungs. She left it painted in her presence. Right then, just there,we were empty fools thirsty for a hidden light. Yes, we were fools.
I fall onward into the great abyss and pull the warm sea over my shoulders, flooding my flesh and sinking into my bones as some that have wings filled my ears with their calls to their lovers and young. And I displayed my eyes with tied lids to anchors in the flooding sea engulfing my being, to watch the new day be born lively and free to give breath to us all. Dust and water never looked so beautiful.
I could hear her heartbeat from outside the room, it was a mad river escaping the agony of my lost father. The waves buried him deep down into the depths of colorless ignorance. The boat with cirrus sails collapsed with our home visible to his eyes, we saw the blue tint of the boat when my fingers were on top of the windowsill with young tipped toes. Gasps were the only understood language and we carried a dreadful brief conversation. Her feet carried her out the door to the sea where the storm was furious and more alive than she was. My fingers still on top of the windowsill and my toes still tipped I see the blue tint being swallowed with my mother fighting the sea in her red wine dress.
Aged coffee dwellers arrive at dawn with their ceramic requests and their predictable routines. When the drinkers spine is as straight as it can be they take their first sip then relax the warm cup between their fragile fingers and are brought, almost dragged, to their past with fixed eyes on the ghostly empty seat across from them. They revisit the person they were but with the acknowledgment with who they are today. With each sip they sink further and further down into their soul where frozen moments in time repeat themselves but with the actual past motions as seen from their hearts.
Now non-existent smiles rain in their veins and laughter once had soars in their valves, love once known visits but with the same intentions as an old friend and wont stay too long. Half empty are their cups and observations of the world around them. A change in motion occurs when their blood slows down, the crowded sanctuary full of other dwellers becomes existent to their eyes but not to their hearts. Empty is the lime green ceramic mug with chipped character and age when their eyes are released from the pattern on the ghostly chair. They are back but not collected completely when routine becomes the next visitor.
The grain was a soft soul speaking to me with its hands to my finger tips. The dirt below my unfiltered stare smiled for me when I couldn’t. My knees were furious but my hands were at peace. I’m a fool with a big heart, but have trouble acknowledging that the sun never rises or sets, but remains in one place.