Tell me - hey - do the trees really fold like that? Fold like folded hands (above our folded words) - in same number and same pattern. I think they really do.
And it's that - its things like that which make me sink into purple creases and crinkled dried flowers, to the smell of burning, as it goes up in flames.
We go up in flames.
Aching for the fountains of icy water to reach burning cheeks and sundried hair. And to reach with their full and hearty palms the sweetest finger-tracse of relief, from the bottle-rimmed heat we did camp in.
Complete with smores and tempestuous coals that twitched and crackled against bursts of three formations of laughter. All the laughters, that get released when you find that you've found - that you're far from the plot your parents picked. And the farther we do go, and the wider our calls do stretch, and the more it is that I'm flying home through the sunset turbulence...and the ones I hold dearest aren't there for my return (soon).
And I think we're like that couple who sat at the table to the left. And I think that I missed you already upon waking up and driving by the lake.
And ain't it funny, hunny, that I left flying through a thunderstorm?
(Wonder if it was the very same one)
Wonder where all that GOES - when it goes.
Wonder where all THAT - icy beautiful hands of rain, all that thunder and raucous, all that I want to remember and to have - goes when it goes...
Because you see, maybe it doesn't.
Maybe the clay and brick and tent vinyl soaks it up, deep into the pores of where trees&leaves&heaves, of things, do GROW.
I can see it there - in cloud-fluffy dirt clods I hold and crumble between those fingers and those palms, and it breaks but isn't broken. It pours but doesn't make poor the very first source of its creation after the storm.
Ain't it funny hunny?
