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…
Prose in Corpse Pose
I’m supposed to be dead.
Instead, I’m crafting prose in my head.
Yes, I’ll admit it. My monkey mind is not at rest.
I’m in Savasana, or “corpse pose” – the final posture in the yoga series, where one completely rests as if ‘dead’. But I’m far from pushing up daisies.
Instead, my mind weaves words. This very post, as a matter of fact.
As I try to cross to the other side, I guess I’m secretly happy that there seems to be no writer’s block in the afterlife.
At least not this morning.
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