Dawnchorus

It’s a time and a song that have been written and told over

And over

And over

And over again. One that only grows too big before collapsing inward upon itself to begin anew in the morning. Like waking to a metal, curved bedframe in a room where the dark wood is kept warm by carpets that your parents have placed in the house before the two of you even decided to buy it. With the coffee that you never used to drink waiting, ready for one to become two. With the Pacific Northwest manifesting itself into droplets on the windowsill through the gap in the window that no one ever seems to close.

Floral quilts become daisies on your hand and little girls find the light from the sun and capture it in their eyes. Spin me around and place your hands flush against the wall to feel flat instead of hot and human.

Stop fretting, darling. Because one will always be One and you know that I’ll always be around to show you that when you seem to have forgotten. But, too, be there for me, as it seems lately that I can’t keep my numbers straight.

I traversed gravity yesterday and can feel it in the fibers of my back by right of my hands. Like how an unfortunate puppy is left from his mother, the right hand becomes Lefty and the left, Mt. Doom. But they were just things to fill my mouth when anything, really would have done.

You think this was and want this, want that. But it is only what you can get out of the end of a pen that becomes what is posted for carriage.

The truth is that these instruments are the sweetest song that my eyes could have ever seen and one that is constant and loving. I will not pretend to tell you about music when your treble clef is more trouble than it’s worth only because everything becomes a fierce and unnecessary trifle. And it’s so silly that your desserts are our social nuances and that one can forget how another sounds after only a week. And how trains of thought flow to grow to such things and destinations in which you never really bought a ticket.

So welcome to these places that I have been and to my impressions everywhere. This hand painted white will soon become a ghost; upside down of course. And then watch as it turned to a turkey and then again into a Christmas tree. And maybe my hands won’t know the things that make my skin feel like it’s not on right. Because they are fixers and not feelers. Because grabbing bundles of fabric in my hands calms my brain for some reason, but taking “medicine” scares me. If the waves of this keep going, everything will be alright under the permanently crescent moon that sings as it rings if you got too close to it at the end of the world that was accidentally made by the strike of one line that completed two letters.

There is no way to stop, really. You can just step back and say “Yikes, what a beautiful mess I have made in my own hand. Will even I be able to use what I have made?”

Maybe, maybe not. But my angle is more right than the angles that would have been drawn on this paper otherwise and I’ve turned so many degrees that it would put that unit circle to shame.

So maybe take your hands as I take mine sometimes and write until everything is okay. Or follow the rope back to your plane. Because I don’t know what hands do, but they do everything that I love and everything that I will ever hold near to me. And name them what you will, Lefty, Mt. Doom, but I won’t always be right and I already live in the Northwest.