In the movement ….
It’s dark, I grope, I grip the wooden arm of the bannister at the top of the stairs. I’m about to take the first step down and here it comes. Not just one morning, every morning.
Must be Mandelstam’s Blossom. It hovers. It hammers. It is now. It is not. It ruptures and raptures. I try to turn, to turn away to Light. Yet and yet and yet, it pulls me back. A beckoning for what? To what?
55° F. Saturday morning. I’m on the front porch. Rain is spitting Autumn, the season has turned.
I look down. Gray shirt. Gray shorts. Gray water bottle. Gray and Blue shoes. I look up, Gray skies. Synchronicity – cosmic alignment.
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