Delightful Moon

The OCD dreamer's sequence, the actions again, without number.  Saturday, bright sunny, not too cold.  Car engine off. Before - park, brake, windows up.  Keys, wallet, unlock, lock. Check.  Walk, list in pocket, or in brain space.  This is 95% of our lives.  This is not correct, or intended.  Suddenly - the sky opens up (it was opening the whole time, but you finally looked up to see it).  The billowy and smoky panels of blue cavort around each other, as the waves settle and flow with a mighty, but restrained weight.  The soft, cool breeze blows through you, whipping you up and around in its central joke.  The ground is hard, and difficult, but you smell dirt from the farm nearby, a wayward late winter fire or two, and see people, coming and going, some sitting at the pier, slowed down, like you have been.  Feet cross cobblestone streets, the ones you pledged your love to, but wish you could change your perspective about now and again.  When they say "it's not you, it's me", well, that's always the case.  This place deserves you and you it, as you communicate and share intimacies with each corner as you see them every weekend, discovering something new or the same old arrangements of trees, cars, corners, planks of wood, all giving everything of themselves under varying intonations of sky and season, new hours, new discoveries.  You wish You were different - not in the padlocked cell of weekend-hood, erranding, hiding, recharging yourself and in great and utter need of a different sort of sun shining onto your body, a softer, and heavier tasting sense of rain underneath your fingertips, along your limbs, a more well meaning and wordy wind in your hair, blowing your internal manifestations of melody around.  Here, only different.  Not just you.  The one with the others - the one who sees the slope of their eyes, the shadows behind and up front of them, their strange and beautiful faces all, not taking or giving a damn thing to you, and that's ok.  We are all holding that sky up, and making that sun shine, that wind blow.  The blue-green inside the small waves supports us, keeps us from buckling over, without an ability to look into each other and smile at all that we see there.  Suddenly, no bitter tastes, suddenly the fraction of time that you were alive, awake and vital moves past you and into someone else- your list, clutched in your pocket or head, feel again for your phone, tuck your keys into your wallet and comb back your wind blown hair, on the right side, just behind your ear.  It's someone else's show now.  But you forget, you can visit and re-write the script any old time you like.  5% is not right, not correct nor the way.  Foreign music gleams from your stereo, in the darkness you hear a nose being blown, a cat scratching at invisible partners, and you shut off all the lights, and the television and the words which choke and haunt you with their mismatched, half truths...you listen to the deep blue, the wind and the rain against the windows, and take your place and part in its operatic and concentric circles across the water and into the dreams you will surely suffocate with your daily anxieties and repetitive imagery rather than this occasional grace which you hold down, while it forces its love into you like the best of wedding nights, your arms dead and heavy like rose petals when the rain stops, and the day clubs you about the head and neck some hours later, from that very same sky, which you won't look up towards again for far too long.

M. Lucia