some day

This day in the, oh, the near-magic of being (or having been imagined, or remembered), I am watered and young and full.

Air curls sweet tails and tales around my strides and the rain has stopped and, though the fat lawn is still damp and the snakes are hiding, a lilted story is sung by tiny birds and the garden shed has warmed and the raspberries new-transplanted have leaped against the fence and put out fresh leaves.

The neighbors’ high apple branches have dressed green and the green, green of the maple roof nearly encloses the space where a cyclone fence meets the aging boarded one and an unseen doggy grave births perennials with shiny swords that might bloom yellow, later.

There have been lifetimes in the music within the four walls, and there were candles last night on the mantle and the lingering rich scent of dinner’s sauce stained wine-purple, with pluckings from the wet herbs next to the wall beneath the kitchen window, and there was ache and joy in words from a book closed on the table as dishwater steamed in the soapy, stainless sink.

And there were comfort hours in the flame-lit darkness, sheltered while the quilted stratus wrung fully into all the green-deep world.

Today in the, oh, near magic of being, or having dreamed I have been, I taste and consider and dance and prepare to savor some destination, some yet unseen desert gold.