.I miss these summertime memories terribly.

.Take care of yourself, you peaceful, sea-foam beach house.

It's always times during which I fixate on detail that I begin to feel at peace in my corridor. I ruminate on things like loose hemming on a silk slip in order to feel detached from the prison of a numb disposition. How is it possible to return home to emptiness? What kind of home possesses void? 

While taking a nap next to complete strangers, I've begun twisting myself in to knots over what's forbidden from me; transatlantic endeavors hang over my numb shoulders like a colloquial explanation for fear. Semantics can provide as much comfort as a heartless prayer that has been birthed from a proud intention. 

Illusions seep in to my sleep and disrupt any environment in which peace could consciously exist. 'Tis far too late to unravel unsuspecting thread; I was too naive to catch it at the first knot; I've already cradled the acidity of apathy.

an encasement too small

My dear little patio, so esteemed in my nostalgic perspective. She's so modestly furnished and starved for adornment. I am nothing but comatose at the thought of her figure. I've crossed my fingers before. May I share a little sympathy on her behalf? She's skin and bones. Yet, all I I've loved are the ferns and my cloves. Should the lantern burn out whilst I am turning pages, I'd be quick to strike a match. Why then is she so famished for my concern? What an empty little dwelling I've created! You see, it takes both my recipient & I to score the surface of an awakening. After months of what I'd perceived to be confiding, I'd found myself concealing. My bottom lip possesses a tendency to turn downward. Denial cannot exist in a face like mine; I've confronted my inability to purse. Should his heart grow too large for it's encasement, it may begin to leak into my speech.  

northern lights

Should the morning light last all day, we'd make haste as we hold our canopies upright. I'd drape fleece over my dreaming shoulders. And should I begin to fight complacency, I'd be too fearful to signal in the midst of this rain. And should my parasol become weak, I've always fiction to confide in. My yarn consists of a warm living room on a lowly-lit afternoon. Should your thin lips surface the rim of a warm porcelain tumbler, I'd be forced to believe you are drinking consent as I imbibe on contempt. My eyes are fixed upon the static of non-fiction and the commonality we ought to share, but don't. I'll share my fleece if you'll share your consideration. 

today

It only took the sound of a lightly-played piano at midnight to cause my heart to stop and ruminate on my own complacency. I've been waiting for this heavenly interjection for months on end. I'd forgotten of the aches that accompany refinement;however, I'd rather feel sad than unclean. I'd rather see a light at the end of the tunnel than find myself fixed in the midst of strange company. I'm ready to accept grace again. I want to rise early and spend time with my Divine on a consistent basis. I want to exercise my intellect as well as my body. I want to literally lock myself in my room and paint for hours on end again. I pray that my thoughtfulness might be restored; that my contemplative spirit might reign more prominent than my impulsive tendencies. I am so weary of wishing to mean what I say; I'm ready to say what I mean and mean what falls from my lips. I long to possess a healing, safe disposition.  

nine hundred and something

Blood boils beneath the cloak of conviction you have clothed yourself with; the warmth is even too much for you to bear. (let alone the victims of your sudden prominence)

Such laugh lines are beautiful to me, yet I, upon watching you laugh, see through to those few long years in which they were put to rest. (a season spent in licking wounds)

And if one should marvel at the beauty of a great lioness, but begin to feel afraid with each and every step with which she is to draw nearer, I should feel the same about the wonderment I've found in you. (as well as the cautiousness I'd disregarded)

  

Warmth

In the midst of an an inexplicably difficult season, the sun has decided as of a few weeks ago that it should comply with the winter solstice and allow it's light to dissipate at a much earlier hour. Last Monday, upon driving to my evening class, the sun was setting behind me as I was driving through Gopher Canyon; Copeland was once again softly resounding from my speakers, and suddenly I felt at peace. How I wish the sweetness of such stillness and warmth would present itself unto me more frequently; though I must not deny the fact that the absence of such placidity is no one's fault but mine. 

I shall leave you with an excerpt from Gilead by Marilyn Robinson:

"The moon looks wonderful in this warm evening light, just as a candle flame looks beautiful in the light of morning. Light within light. It seems like a metaphor for something...

It seems to me like a metaphor for the human soul, the singular light within the general light of existence. Or it seems like poetry within language. PErhaps wisdom within experience. Or marriage within friendship or love."