Sting is singing in my ear; he is telling me how fragile we are. Indeed I feel it at a depth that is hard to fathom. Perhaps like the Mariana Trench…
Angels are brushing watercolors in the sky with feather strokes that spread and vanish like rain in the desert this morning.
Gardeners are cleaning up oleanders, spruce and whatever else needs to be trimmed and readied for winter. Warm winds rolling down the mountain sweep the disheveled pepper trees that shake, tremble, and quiver looking totally undone. I am caught in their tousled leaves, in the windmills of my mind, in the music.
I am so freaking near tears this morning it’s not funny. So damn lonely, heartsick, on so many levels it’s pathetic. No end in sight either. It is what it is, the new normal that makes me want to wail and throw ashes on my head this morning. No one to share the crude viridian green of back lit blades of grass tangled with the saturated violet of torn bougainvillea blossoms; no one to share the song of this unknown warbler I hear calling out somewhere near.
The warmth of the sun touches my face, kissing my eyes shut, sending vibrations all the way to my belly…How would a man’s hands on my face feel? I don’t remember.