We’ve just hiked and I’ve been gathering the smells, the feel of ferns and meadow rue brushing my legs, my rolled-up baggy jeans, which I wear every day. Hiking boots, ancient by now. Green moon-covered ribbon knotted around my left wrist. What would it be to be moon-colored? Tonight, the Super one, full moon in Aquarius. Row row row your boat…
Be at ease, as much as humanly possible. If I can’t use my anger for fuel, expel it. Dump it with the rest. There are gases coming off it–all the hot air I was saving for balloons. The scent of green and sweet soil, berries. Blood on my hands from my Diva cup, tipped into the outhouse commode and then reinserted. No water for washing.
I just wanted to ask, what is lucid like? Like this. With. What is with. What is the width of all this, a panoramic view, thorns and green, peeling bark with its bright orange underbelly. Cow parsley. The meadow drenched in sun.
Row Row Row
merrily merrily merrily merrily
All those merrily’s. Okay so yes so be alive! Be joy on the river! Even in grief, come to the mountain for panorama.
There are blanks. There are open swaths of land. What does it mean to be open? What is a swath and swaddled land? Coiled under a cap of atmosphere, fading, thinning. All the people pulled their cars to the side of the road, got out and marveled at the sparkle of the sea. In the book I’m reading the seas are all barren. The animals have died.
We stood in the ocean and it was so cold, so plunge and frost, instant. She waded out to her thighs but I just let it chomp at my ankles. Brine brewed up strong and sharp like I like. And blue blue blue under bright bright light. Even sand-dappled, our feet were white as fish. There were palm-sized tangy apples, after.
My sweat has ocean origins. Here the gift of time and health, plenty of fresh water, strong bones and skin. All the muscles, including but not limited to the heart. That lone, curving madrone tree.