Thursday July 3 2014
After work, as the sky darkens,
I throw the doors and windows open for the wind, for the clamoring chimes,
for the purification of motion.
I write this in the dark. I want to be part of it.
A storm is coming to this dry land, you can see it coming, lighting up corners of the darkened sky.
The cats, used to huddling in at night, venture tentatively, with my permission, looking back at the door in case I change my mind.
But I leave the door open. The wind enters. The lace curtain falls from the thick adobe windowsill.
What’s next , I hope, is rain, and more rain.
The train whistles. The cats are both out there. At the open curtain-less window, I say, before taking a place on the sofa, Welcome!
Friday July 4, 2014
Last night, I let the wind roam through my house,
turning things over, rattling pages. Announcing the coming rain.
Outside, the flag twisted and turned, but held.
I kept the lights dim, straining to read in the small glow, a book about heaven.
Then, it came down,
pounding and rattling until I lost my bearings,
a pitiful woman holding a small book, on a stuffed white sofa,
rocking on high waters,
turned into a particle,
part of the wave, swirling around and yet still,
riding, my knees hunched, book in hand.
It came down,
and I saw that I am a part of it. All of it.
And you, too.
Today I walked through neighborhoods. I could make it up stairs, I could breathe deeply. A fresh scent permeated everything.
As I walked, I gave praise and thanks and humble nodding for my smallness and yet significance as part of the great story.
What are you doing, this day below heaven?
My son and his wife celebrate their marriage. People make noise. Big showers of color.
Yet last night, too, felt like independence, democracy.
The storm, the wind and lightning and thunder that precedes it; the different voices. Coming together aloud and each thing saying something. Then the rain. Then the quiet after.
Saying it strong, saying it well. Saying their song.
Each part necessary.
C Suzanne 2014
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