A leaf with no tree blown here to the feet of me the color of danger of blood a Sugar Maple in autumn.

Gifts from above.

Or beyond.

The reach of my hand the knowledge in my head the answers to questions I dare not ask.

Distance is nothing and everything for most days it is as though it is no greater than two worn leather club chairs before a banked fire separated by an end table holding a tumbler of rum and coke and a tall glass of mint tea.

It is glancing over top of a magazine and catching you glancing at me this curiosity.

I shake my head to knock the train of thought from its tracks, it does not always work.  I eye aye – Oi  snap out of it.

A dialogue of gentle progression with scintillating moments where I forget and give voice to outrageous thoughts then run away as though I were 8 and fearing the consequences of having done something just a tad naughty.

I come back.

Always do.

In these moments of soundless whispers sparks flare and my mind illuminates and the torch reveals the treasure and beauty, the garbage and grime, the skeleton, the butterflies and little balls of twine. 

From this place inside my soul I gather the bits closest to me I put them on paper for all to see but the spark it sputters the bright light goes out and I am left in the darkness stumbling about.

Some days are magic while others drone on they drone when I miss you because you are gone.

I cannot keep such an ephemeral thing as the idea of a butterfly floating on wings whipping up hurricanes of ideas in my mind.

Set them free.

Fuck yeah.




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