Oh it’s a bright yellow sky, goldening my upturned face, my sleeves hang like the frilly shags of a flared flag iris. I am the lady’s slipper, the firm persimmon. I’m an open pocket, a tight bud of seeds. My dog at my feet: I am never alone; all of these companions suit me. The mountains rise icy in the distance, peaky jagged peaky, and I am never peaked. A white morning glory: thought to be a weed but I have no such judgement. I trumpet the morning, the fresh.
I have my walkin boots, my flexible garments, my un-stationary heart. It’s lifted, a beacon, I trust the O of Origin. I trust–jumping off a cliff? No not jumping I step and a trampoline rises to meet me, but not until I’ve had two full minutes of free flight, without feathers save the one in my cap! It’s freefallin! It’s Tom Petty and he’s traveling. The Fool is a bard, a minstrel, the holy carrier of wisdom because her own inner landscape is un-rigid, always shifting. The poet is a funnel, a fountain, a pen. Tuning fork of the universe. A clay jar, open for the filling.
This Fool, she sways on her feet, each step a dance, water curling at her feet. She needn’t sleep, has bursts of wakefulness, lark in her throat, a calyx, a pencil, a sun and its warmth, the softening of muscles, threaded like beets, an imprint of ink and the road knows no end.
Reversed, the world flips upside down. A clinging. A stumbling stone, toes curled around the rocky crags, clinging like bats between days, between flights. The flower drops away: morning glory, what’s your story. A lost afraid child, vertigo, my dog’s turned against me. Naive, a sieve, it all pours through me. Nothing catches. I am the one who believes the emperor’s clothes; I run and fetch the juggling balls, for a laugh, for permission, hunting your footfalls, lost in my daydreams, my feet flipped and long.