You know as you drink that a warm brew of coffee, though efficacious in its way, cannot take this stinging from the eyes, this dryness from the throat. On mornings like this, when your back hurts all the way to your front, when your teeth are tightly packed and your hands seem too heavy to write the lightness of your thoughts, wispy like clouds of mist, the wind blowing through the canyon of your chest whistles for the miracle to happen, for the time to come. Your time these days ticks to the click of the clockwork machine, the mastermind rhythm with no backbeat for dancing. You weep and you ache to heed the fading echoes that say, "The answer rides the wind. The clouds are building on the horizon, waiting to crash. Hold on. Hold on. It comes on the clouds. Hold on."
And then I think, "You are sugar on the moon. You are cinnamon on the stars. You dip the universe in chocolate and sell it on a stick." But that isn't what they told me. They told me I was salt, salt for the earth. You must be salt for the earth, lest you be trampled by men, lest you be worthless.
I rise up. I ride the front. We pause on the horizon, building our strength. We pile up, billowing, spoiling for the fight. Soon we will plunge, pouring and purging our wrath upon the trees and the stones. Thunder will be our howl and lightning will be our blade. We cannot win, but many will see our passing.
When it's done I lie in the mud, the last of the cold rain, gentle now, showering down on my shivering body. I might be injured, I cannot tell, but the stinging is gone from my eyes, the dryness from my throat. I shiver in the cold gusts of wind and shake with bouts of laughter, drowned out by the fading roar of the storm.
I don't know. I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better.
Hello, friends. Cookies have started to arrive, a kindness so sweet that I am bewildered and I don't know what to do but to say, "Thank you."
Tell me something I do not know.
Later. Love.
