Feeling into the past, a fragrance of my life, wicked and sweet, fleeting, yet unsettling in one beauty, one worldly encounter, one face of flower fully exposed. I transpire into depths uniting the past with the presence, I cannot tell apart. Whirl and wild leap around the sun, stradling the heat on each lofty stride like the unknown spirits we envisioned, drawing leafs upon naked branches in spring. Each stroke of living truth appears attached to an emotion – loaded moments – pinning my memories to a momentary being.

I stop in my tracks, cannot seize or control, though it is mine alone, it really isn’t. The rays blink my eyes awake. We laugh some, we cry some. None of my strides are lost. I’m counting more and more in the progression of my life. I lean against the haystack or shift my cheeks on the red bench. I sit by the water and stand under the tree, visit Mima, sip the comings of winter, reach the intense, near suffocating energy of spring, hold my own hand – so small – wear time around my beating heart and slow slowly, tilt my neck backwards and smile in the glow of sun and moon and universe.

Touch glides under my skin to caress the gentle stream flowing down the mountainside into the depths of my heart. My step too is touch, fond of the accumulated water, fond of moving on worn out soles in this very lifetime. Each toe takes to the whisp of winter grazing the manifold branches within me. A pulsating open and close like flaps pressed to my muted words, expanding their reach to the sun.

On the windowsill the angel looks on, dives deep, lays the strands of me across mountain face and lake, tilts my head towards the hold of the sun just as the duck’s beak shatters the surface. Ripples cover vast space.