my book is still a baby

I want to float like a tune in the back of someone's throat.

My mother showed me what it was to slip fingers amidst flowers.

To stroke petals.

And, holding fingertips to faces, watch delight enter through the nose and land on lips.

Such is scent.

The tree does not reach skywards out of self-interest, bud out of vanity, provide out of self-gain, or wilt out of despair. It is fundamentally connected and seasonally attuned as but a piece of the greater whole.

Will I have enough todays to build my tomorrows? Will I have enough tomorrows despite my yesterdays?

The fabric of the universe catches on a hangnail, tearing.

The earth, like my body, hums.

I realized I am a door without a lock.

The people and places that pass through me have been waiting on my stoop for a very long time.

And I am open.

I wait for the moments when another tells me ”it’s like nothing else.”

Gladly, do I fall headlong into those territories that steal a breath and give back awe.

Magic. Cloying against an exhalation my lungs don’t want to let go of for fear I’d slip right out past the confinement of my five senses.