& every breath we drew was Hallelujah

The sunset was so beautiful today that it was transparent.

Colors don't speak to me, they grey in comparison to the wonder that black lines on white paper can sing.  At 4:30, though, colors faded just as words and papers do, and the medium was lost to the meaning.

I couldn't smile big enough, so I opened my mouth and I laughed.

Joy is above letters and behind the sky--when my mind searches it is often afar off, but it is imminent in my soul.

lavenderpeach

It's raining outside and I can't see anything for all the water in the sky.
I'm bundled in an ugly mush of funny layers, a Peruvian hat, and one leg-warmer (I've lost the other for the time being) with darkening peach tea in a mini jam jar to my right.
My one class is cancelled.
I'm listening to my INHUT playlist and admiring my dance-chipped toenails and working on my essay about time.
I'm trying not to cry because life is slanting beautiful, just like lavender rain.
I could hardly be happier.

This was one:

"Little duck cabin place.
In an old boat on dry land with his guitar and the sort-of-company she provides
while writing postcards.
Strong sun plays Spanish chords and
Utah breezes carry the sweet scent
of dry baked pollen and manure.
(Each particularly strong gust ruffles the feather in my hair--I
was/am
pretending to be an Indian.)
I wish I had a disposable camera, because those capture this empty-happy
feeling.  Cow feeling.
I love it.
There are very few moments when I realize that I am happy."

Nothing Gold Can Stay - Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

"In thee my soul shall own combined the sister and the friend." - Catherine Killigrew

Sleepy little beach girl, sun slapped and color kissed, sprawls atop the humidity of the back seat.  The sunset is gone, but the dark lavender-pink clouds of Boston's summer nights pool across the sky like the tide.  Our contented dreams fill the silence of the car.  Sometimes when I ask her something she does not respond, and I think it is because she is lost in all the pretty thoughts all tangled up with the salt in her hair.

John Wesley Powell, Aug. 3, 1869

Cinnamon-honey

roasted salt chocolate

streaked cheesecake

layers melt hundreds of feet high

creating a shallow

frame—whether for

minted water or

lemon-blue sky

I can’t decide.

Perhaps,

it is this shallowness that is disconcerting.

This gilded frame

is only

half

of what it once was.

Cavernous mint waters

pool;

their natural beauty

belies artificiality

as man-made as

the mouthwash

they remind me of.

Sweated faith

Concrete trust

Red dust

Canyons fill for

forty-nine years.

Histories drown in

five-hundred-eighty-nine months.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

A seventeen-thousand-seven-hundred-ninety-eight day

flood has gained permanency

notoriety

quintessentiality.

Is this worth the cost of

never

landing in the center of this

“curious ensemble of

wonderful features”?

Bugs

Tell me your thoughts and I'll keep them safe and sound in a glass jar with holes poked in the lid so they can breath.

(That's where I keep my most important thoughts, too.)

I'll give them leaves to munch and sticks to climb and fresh flowers every every day.

I'll take care of them because I love you.

But really, I'll keep them because maybe someday our thoughts will get so mixed up and comfortable that we'll forget whose is whose.

Doesn't that sound nice?