Snowing

My hair wet; my skin red. The shower an unbalanced mechanism of heat and ice. Beads of water drip from my skin. I am barefoot walking through the house. You can smell the dog and feel her sheadings on the floor. My naked body, lightly dried with a soaking towel, covered by a sheet in a cocoon of heat and flesh. I am pulled into his arms. His scent fills me, his gentleness surrounds me. My hair damp dripping on my back. There is a chill in the air as I lie beneath the covers. Somehow I understand and know for certain that is is snowing. In the morning my hair stands high. The bed holds me in place. I never want to leave. Knowing I am fragile there was comfort in the security. It was snowing.

...Celebrated its joy. (7-31-08)

I have not swung so high in so long. This timeless feeling of childhood creeping into my soul. I am alive this day. The clouds excite me. I was asked to describe the color green for someone who is blind. I said that green is the sour in a granny smith apple, it is the bitter aroma of freshly cut grass. Later I thought it to be the sounds of water rinsing spinach in the kitchen sink. The sound of spring leaves, not fall leaves, soft and moist, brushing against each other in the breeze. I laughed in the day that this was. I cherished and celebrated its joy.