The driftwood burning
Learned its jewelled blaze
From the sea's blue splendor
Of colored nights and days.
-Driftwood. Sara Teasdale
The rain has set back in, green days awash with grey. I'm still reading my leaves each morning, and I constantly have blue ink on my fingers and thread in my pockets. I'm putting the stories in order, my mind is full of words; lines sounded out in rhythm and whispers. My hands are full of pebbles, smooth and worn. And my desk and floor are covered in a flurry of paper and images, text and waiting books. I always work this way, finally putting it together during the last weeks, before that it remains fluid; shifting, gathered and windblown until I breathe deep and pin it down...
Today I love soft knits and the drum of rain on the roof, I love blossoms that fall like snow and cups of steaming tea. I love bare feet and loathe words that taste like lies. Today the woman I am has been scanning the sky like a map and eating jam from the jars, she wants to pocket those stars and sprinkle them in her tea leaves and the only person she tells it all to has salt in his hair, a bird on his foot and the ocean in his blood...
