22 March 2019

rose spun morning.

two days of fog and rain, and where these walls almost always sing with jolly drum taps and the jingle of piano keys, wheels-on-hardwood and the marvelous poetry of babyspeak, this very hour i hear only the sound of fat puffs of air rising from the diffuser (rose otto, rosemary) and yellow taxis speeding by, splashing puddles down below.

francis is gliding across the morning aboard a dream-boat, christoper is traveling in senegal, and i have just padded back to my perch from the kitchen, from where the french press called. when i saw the weather report, i thought i might feel like doing a bit of writing about switzerland, finally, or about how the book i am reading (to bless the space between us by john o'donohue) feels like prayer, but here, now, just as it is starting to pour, a single thought is blooming: when he wakes, we'll walk to look again at the branches that have been so quiet these months, and i will tell him again of their names (forsythia, magnolia, merry bells, shooting star, glory-of-the-snow...to say them aloud is a festival, a parade) and i will tell him once more of how it all feels to me, to be still, to wait and wonder and watch. (holy. pure. like a kept promise. like love. a feeling to get lost inside.)

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