Wake to no electricity. Lightning and thunder. Can’t see the mountains for the rain clouds.
Weather turns vision inward – though just a bit blurred – where beauty is found in the ordinary.
Something About Saturday Sunlight
even makes dishes look beautiful.
My grandmother’s bowl – cracked but still in tact, thanks to Bohemian precision.
To Be An Egg
On this first morning in March, I feel like an egg.
All of spring’s potential gathered into one potent, delicate container.
I am incubating. Not yet to the hatching stage (and that will certainly take some pecking), I’m in some molecular metamorphosis.
It’s womby, warm and dark in here. Safe and unfinished.
Not yet completely cooked, I simmer slowly while a whole new world is promised.
I am a trajectory evolving, spiraling and spilling over the sidelines of linear time.
Until that perfected moment, when the mystery of life culminates. Collides with time and space.
Or something like that…
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