Axis of smells gathered in the knot of a compass, windmill churning in the absence of wind: if I say panaginip, it means dream split open. It means heat causing a mirage of tender feelings, or rain falling in sixteen hour shifts. So much moisture is good for the soil; and such weather is perfect for a meal of beans. If the insects have had their supper, why are they lined up at the sill? On the continents of yes and no and maybe, there are thresholds that cannot be crossed, and there are those that blur beyond recognition.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Memory: A Tonic
- Orality: Little Treatise
- Dearest one, I am Prince Ashily Quatama
- Every Death
- There are words and there are words:
- Little Voyage
- Atlantis Rising
- In the Ablative
- The wren in the lilac cycles through its songs at breakneck speed—
- If the future is a bird headed for a summit too far away to tell:
- Tending Fire