is purple and the magic settles into the branches and bones

when the rules change

when the beast is no longer amenable to his cage

that is my hour

my walkabout

my wellspring

in that year of the vanishing island

she walked the full circumference each eighth hour of each day

by sun, and torch and moon

returning the shells she had collected

reciting the words of her lovers that had walked there with her

closing in on what could only be, within her heart, an ending

when all the world is purple

and the magic settles into the bones and branches

when the rules change

when the beast is no longer amenable to his cage

that is my hour

my walkabout

my wellspring

not conscious of the gathering nor the reciprocity

the ebb nor the flow

just being

like liquid, like light

there at your core

housing the heart of the world

and i didn’t know what to do with my hands

no pockets

nor easy responses

and a history of shed skins

leaving me vulnerable, burning and

reticent in the face of blessings, of beauty

and, yes, of joy

i am vapor

i am erudition

i am sugarlight

i am morningtide

i am not lost

nor thin

nor easy

i will sometimes count the steps of this road

and sometimes not

forever attempting to keep my head up

noting the moment

the light

the air

the stretch and breath of me

concerning myself less and less with this road stretching out behind and ahead of me

more with these blessings underfoot

within

and all around me

i see your light

and raise you a tin roof

maybe grow you that lemon tree you once dreamed of

i will make a home of your bones, muscle and arrogance

don’t need much, really

just you

a soft place to fall

and rise

and glow

and repeat

i’ll find the words to put it down

make it linger

make it linger deep and sweet

she was as tangled inside

as the tree above her

branches vining for the sun,

the rarified air

in intricate dance

of dependance

and efficacy of self

the swan was clearly at war with herself and

would turn and turn

leaving a wake of entangled circles and

watery webs of ego

of restlessness

and squandered hours of flight