Lost Spry

I remember scrambling over the train, throwing my bike across my shoulder and climbing  stilled boxcars. Sopping wet, singing at the top of my lungs, and setting my sites on upcoming puddles promising the biggest splashes as I remounted from the other side.  In the spring and summer of 2014, the seams of  heaven loosened to historic levels of inclement rains on our semi-arid desert region; intoxicating balcony sessions filled my evenings with a slung hammock, interminable coffee allotments, and soul-wrecking books.

In the mornings, I had a circuit of figure eights I’d imprint around the trees:  praying and laughing, touching blooms and blossoms, whispering to the clouds, listening to serenity’s secrets as the morning bustle awoke, imposing her departure.  ‘Seducive’ has always been the tone of morning’s approach to my awake.  A tanilizing solemnity that enratpures and stimulates with the sensitivity and arousal of an old lover’s touch and presence, forever favored by time and its phlegmatic inducing; who is seemingly a closet, hopeless romantic.

There are trees I remember.  Scripted into creation for my discovery.  Their dendritic patterns lacing the sky as I lay on my back counting leaves, those heroic holdouts left self-commissioned under a moral obligation to grant us with color until winters reprise.  I guess it’s spots.    There are colors that have arisen behind my eyelids in meditation, eternally present.   The cool touch of rocks, whose embrace I still feel touching my skin as the seat to a masterpiece before my eyes.   Those places where divinity speaks without words and serenades without song.  Those moments of poetic glimmers, attuned to and surrendered in.  Symphonic interabiding of colors, breath, wishes, and bliss.  I have rocks and spots and trees held sacred to me. I’ve felt moments lapped in wonder.

I need to remember to be youthful. Remember to play. Remember to sing. Remember the euphoric moments ever present and waiting.