And no Dream but This---

You are standing on a bridge,
watching yourself go by.

Notes from a Summer, V

I guess this is growing up—the feathers that found themselves in my fingers while weeding, the way the sky triumphantly marched cloud after cloud across the sky but only rained once. Watching my hands hoe the greenhouse dirt as if they themselves were the challenge of staying present; they hardly have to do with it. The days are starting to blend together like watercolors… ah, to know the feeling of a cloud that wants to spread its roots.