blushing blooming blossoming
blinking [eyes open] / hear that squish
magenta juice, coral flesh
making fragrant +
t u r n i n g pink
in some wayshapeform (or cake)
that anything other than love and kind and admiration just turns to space
[see: a bulbous spider consumes the trapped within its fibers
in an episode of This Is The Other Side]
it transforms the rest to either nothingness,
or smooth sweet cloud cream fluff atop sugar and butter and flour all
What if we wonder, Does it come easily?
and not in the way that inaction might, or giving up, or remaining uninvolved
[because all of those may be the more complicated option at some point, depending on the circumstances]
does it come easily?
Does it come out of you like breath, returning round the bend of an inhale? as in,
Does it come out of you naturally, as if you weren’t made for anything other than what you’re expressing? as in,
Does it envelop you wholly, enrapture you, lift your toes from the ground when it calls? And,
is it worth it
not to seek it
now that you know how to identify it
when it comes
Every once in a while, the faded parts resurface, and there is love.
Right ankle crossed over the left, big toe balanced and slanting. Upright. Leaning. This is how we say goodbye.
I have heard that we are all just bits and bobs held together by what we believe. That we can change, because
we are no different than that which seems different around us
How do we rewrite the parts that made us burst?
[It feels like I have been doing this for years.]
And maybe it is in the knowing, the not having to wonder, the ability to distinguish now
when perhaps you would not have done before, and surely you once were blind
(to the little flecks of color in the batter).