These cycles we endure, and still we neglect the signs. Tap – tap – tap – type the story of the hour; viral exchange of hype and mundanity, turn and turn and turn again. The seasons of love and loss are familiar like the worn pages of your nightstand read and the sound of the Pennsylvania night trains barreling through the hills. Grow a little love, shine a little light- loosen up the dirt with my heels. Till the earth by hand and sow my process and deliberation by seed. For all of our former suffering we are met with a reckoning and redemption and tribulations I have many times known. No worse and no less than my kindred’s- my brothers and sisters, but I am redefined and ready to face the day. Where strength once dwelt it has returned to light the shadows. Where fear once reigned it has now fled- abdicated in shame; and burned away like blight.

Lucky am I, receiver of faith, to define my days by adventure and grace. This mortal situation is maddening- and that’s probably the damn point. When you lose yourself completely in a turning, in a pointed phase, in a certain atmosphere, there’s just no turning back. Aesthetics that are the same yet not the same encounter varied parallel paradigms- you look trashed little time-bomb, close your eyes and wait- dream of kingdoms and hopes that are a fleeting fate.

This beauty – too much to be measured. And we who fashioned ourselves mountaineers and conquerors of the heather and marsh and air and airwaves and freeways and universes, fall before His creation and me nearly before my time, the wise and blind, third-eye, so deep in Neverland visions and – natural ecstasies that I very nearly step quite gracelessly into the fangs of a white and black diamond-dull penny sheen copperhead writher; driven out in droves by the heavy May rain-fall and I sprint the whole way home.

This dragonfly-court of emerald and blue-grey knights where concrete has no choir though is but a stone’s throw over the tree line – is a distant memory and as such, a certain stillness, simultaneously exploding like the foundations of a glass building touched by war and my heartbeat a resounding crash of waves against my eardrums; face flushed and nearly drowned by the persistence of enormity and the thunderous bellow of frogs.