Points of Departure

what

are you leaving

are you leaving behind

what is

the point 

of departure

ask yourself

when

you arrive

The Shape of Things

Spring starts with late hours of sunlight that chafe the inward spirit. Then rain. Then heat. Do, more, out, see, world. It is the curse of a temperate, insistent, envied city.









I keep reading the message on today's calendar and it slips from my mind. No focus, no commitment. I wash from one to another project, craving the transcendence of art - strong swathes of color, the rhythm of texture, image, sound. A play of light. A shift of emotion. I crave wordless space. The wordless admixture of faith, aggression, ambition, and love that is the alchemy of a resting heart.

I do not know what this season will bring. I fell asleep this afternoon with palm fronds ripping eastward against the soft gray sky. I woke to a layer of blue slicing through the southward view: holding a space between rooftops and cloud as I stood listless before my kitchen window.








I do not know the shape of things.