The summer is winding down, should have been home by now. We ran from two islands, but Irene caught us in NY and has us grounded. No space on any airlines, so we wait, stuck, packed, ready, in memories. We left this behind, spending our last day on the farm haying: My husband got to do this: while I ran
August nights in British Columbia: But I get to do this:
Moving from postcard to postcard. Mouth pried wide, inhaling air untouched by hands. I’m a long way from the heatwave of NY, where my lungs hung heavy in thickness. Water runs clear here. No beat, or pulse. But that of life itself.
Finally out of cities. There’s so much space. I find myself bouncing against emptiness, unable to catch me, or resist against boundary. Falling into nothingness, where I hope at least, on my back, the stars will fill me with something. The thing I came looking for.