the earth that etches letter

i woke to a vision of you coasting down hills and laughing about someone you passed on the street. your fellows riders were split between an intense dedication to what they were doing and a pleasure bordering on profound. but you were like the dancer in the crowd of competitors who had never forgotten how to love what you were doing, who had no goal other than to do what you enjoy because you enjoy it.

your smiles were bounding through my head, a montage of tilted, turned, leaned, and steady headed smiles. a sea of comments being traded with the people around you: jokes and the giggles that chase them. there were stories told in the way you gripped the handlebars and operas in the uphill dedications.

someone turned to you and said, "how come everyone doesn't do this?" and you laughed because you knew because it was automatic for you to understand that no color coats everything because you saw and felt and lived the changing dynamics between people and places and people and the lives they want the lives they lead and you are the watcher of the storm sometimes.

but even your glances were the book versions of gentle and gliding, from face to face and minute to minute. you were eyes on arms around friends and knees that accidentally bumped their companions and everyone was secretly glad it happened. you alone in the moment could see the sparks fly from that slight collision, you alone, born and burst forth with the vision to know and see and feel that you are a part of every moment. you needed not be the general of seconds, only there and seeing.

and then you came, a thin layer of sweet sweat across you, pedaling back up to your house, sliding your bike into it's home base and turning to move indoors. stevie the blind cat nipped at your feet as you moved from room to room, taking care of details and arranging the day. maybe you took a moment to etch me out a letter that made me smile, but you didn't write it to make me smile. you wrote it because that's who you are. you are only the songs of your own nature, your own living way and breathing patterns that bend and turn and shift to form the crux of you.

you are walks through bedrooms and into the morning only sighs and stretches: the traipsing to showers which you imagine me joining, and i am always watching them. i am always coming into your quiet moments and busy moments and sudden spurts of coming to and into things which flares around me in all directions. and you make them happen. you form them in the mud and take of your ribs to forge me in the fire of time and bring me home to you.

you are fine and coated with the scents and sights of strange discoveries and walks through doors that only later seem to be defining moments. you define the moments.

you are stars that fell on cavemen and sometimes i pretend i can see them falling.

maybe i can.

you are miracles more often than not.

i hope your day wages war on less-than-magic instants,


2008-03-23 | 4:47 p.m.
0 comments so far