In a can’t-seem-to-move-forward kind of day (and isn’t life a spiral, anyway?) and the sun dipping in and out of the clouds. In that way of reaching for words that will come somewhere from the future now and letting go the grasp. In that way, that gentle, foggy, in-between way–the chickens’ combs are starting to emerge. Even out of time, there’s a perfect timing for everything. On Saturday, we saw eight seals, a heron, and a whale in the channel surface-feeding. Today, Goose howled in such a way I’ve never heard in all the time I’ve known her. The most plaintive of plainsong.
Among the last, few scraps of fabric was a panel of three silk herons, thread-bare, and repaired. They, too, had survived, like the dark shade of lipstick, an antiquated super power brought to new life by her mother’s hands. She lived with things that were borrowed, second-hand, cast-off, a memory foam bed with someone else’s memories. Not even the dogs were her own.
The world is humming, alive. For you it has blossomed and died and is blooming again. For you, all for you.