My love is stirring a softening
stay and listen
Article voiceover
You can count the last leaves
on your ten
o u t s t r e t c h e d fingers.
A slight exaggeration, but that’s what you call
[[ artistic license ]]
Anyway, most of them lay wet,
nestled in corners of the garden.
The toes of the sun bleached green oxfords
my mother keeps succulents in
hang off the porches edge
as though they want to dive
into the tangle of vines beneath.
If I recall correctly,
I’m the one who put them there
so maybe it says more about me
than the shoes.
What drew me out here
is the thick, gentle swath of fog
filling the atmosphere,
dampening sound, softening
the edges of my breathing,
welcoming the calm I often resist.
Everything feels slower.
There is nowhere to go
in a fog like this.
Sit.
((( Listen )))
Stay
a moment in its warmth.
Distance is unrecognizable.
Houses disappear into
shapes
and colors.
Bare lunged trees appear to be,
well, I don’t know
how to describe the interplay
of watery atoms
licking every inch of wood.
But there it is again.
Dissolving boundaries.
Fuzzy.
My love tells me
the valley is a bowl of mist this morning
he’s only now stirring.
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This is a beautiful, moist poem describing what's going on in your environment and mind. (I know a lot of people hate the word "moist," but I'd like to defend it. What would cake and love be without it?) Your reading is lovely as well. I can hear your linguistic articulators moving around—teeth, tongue, lips, palate, lungs, all of them also moist—and they really express a kind of dancing the words out of you. Stupendous!
"If I recall correctly,
I’m the one who put them there
so maybe it says more about me
than the shoes."
Serene and reflective, Faye. I always enjoy and appreciate. There's more here to deep dive, but there always is. I am sitting in my car with sun streaming in warm, so I think this time I will just sit and feel it.