i am too fly not to fly

Blow by blow, slowly, the cheek of the heart,
Gets slapped clean.
Rumi

febuary on the island.
winter is breaking, it is cracked,
the lights floods in.
buds. spring.
shake off the crust of winter: scape the intestines, clean the windows

i look through my little book, to here collect all the fragments of thoughts
written to peg memory to.
i begin to remember that i can write,
that i too have painted the vast nothingness scarlett with my passion.

it is all about process i realize.
the continual moving through things.
things! the dishes, diet, standing tall, accepting silence:
money moving from one hand to another, leaves into the compost, dirt for the seed.
for some reason,
i am only now realizing that every step is a part of the process,
that it is all process.
and that every part of that is necessary, valuble and of use.
process. documentation. life.
all these realities existing concurrently.
and they are all valid.

i dont have to be anything.

but i will .
i am.

by leaving out puncuation, leaving out indicators of start and finish
i mean to draw that thoughts are not separate
but endlessly woven into each other.
playing with punctuation is playing with time

yes there is much to write out, to be fair,
if this blog acts as some method of communication
or some form of documentation.

there is a marraige of myself in a plump month to note,
the velvet satin cape i will make, the rumi laterns, our ceremony unwritten,
the rock, the lush posse of women that composes our families to attend;
the gardens i have to plant in, Kalayas, Rousseaus, possibly veggies in Destas,
and the crazy emotional journey that has been the last two months;
but time
ticks and i have focused communications to make.
may i draw myself out full.