The west facing, pale yellow back room of my house is bordered with plants & keeps warm in the warm months .
The light feels doubled in there, & it’s wise to request specific positioning from whomever is looking east; use their head to block the sun. This’ll light up ears though. Rudolph adjacent.
It can be hard to take conversation there seriously.
I left home to listen & to talk to others, & met a poet I admire in a bar. She wears dresses in real life too. I searched the moment for normalcy & wound up offering a quick quip I’d picked up in a class on pathogens, about not touching wet things if you don’t know their origin story. My brain defaulting to an awkward dance I’ve been unlearning the steps of since the world took to life behind masks, uncertainty & over-tenderness.
Be careful what you say to poets- every stitch can be fodder. I was not looking to feed.
I heard an interview with a singer/songwriter who likened his writing flow to that of being a court stenographer; when he’d uncovered a vein & a song emerged- he was hard pressed to keep up. I’ve ridden that river before. I don’t visit enough to to be carried. The shore is one I’ve come to countless times. Take me, waters. I am yours.
There’s still sand & very fine particulate matter between my toes from very possibly very distant shores. To think there are swells that carry shipwrecked contents to dump all on one beach. 1,000 Hello Kitty phones for a 2 mile stretch of coastline. Plastic or shells. To think what beachcombers are privy to in the earliest parts of sunrise. To think we’re all made of star dust.
You never know how your influence may reverberate. Everything has an echo. I heard of a cat who slept in the same position as its dearly departed dog friend only after the dear dog had departed this bodied life. I can catch my phrasing coming from my friends. I’ve imprinted. Who do I parrot, unknowingly?
The sun is in repose now, in this corner of world. No need for bodily inadvertent illumination, lest you count shining a flashlight to spy on the family of raccoons climbing to their home post to settle in for the night, or to snack on high hanging fruit in our yard. They’re not quiet, but are indeed deceptively adorable looking. I love to catch their eyes flashing. They roost on my garage; sleep on one side, shit on the other. Another argument for rain. When I work in the garage I can hear the sudden drop of falling apples. The sound of seasons. The staccato percussion of slow poetry. The occasional scampering of tiny footsteps – far smaller than the 4 legged bandits.
Those plants in that pale yellow room are cozy, tucked into pots respectfully. None are root bound, all drink on Sundays to a consistent hand. Still- they know what time it is, flowering on point & shedding with their outdoor brethren, passively absorbing the good western light as the old day tucks itself away. And darkness threads together to coat the day.
What's on your mind?