Sharp and Bittersweet

I am holding my silence, or maybe it holds me.
But I know in the undercurrent of this life, you are not so far from me.

The light in this kitchen is harsh and florescent, humming slightly, illuminating wooden counters and someone else's cupboards.  This is a strangers house. Yet, the dogs sleep at my bare feet.
The distant sounds are silent, and in my cup, I am finished with my peppermint tea.

Above the highlands and the hills, above the seaglass stained beaches of California and the muddy rivers of the North Fork, above the noise and clutter of a world turning too fast to be stilled, waits, the thin cheshire cat grin of a slowly sinking silver moon. Waiting on a world. But still shinning.

Below, waits a woman, her head to the heart of the ground, soil in her fingernails and the earthy smell of spring in her auburn hair.

In her hands she hold her secrets, sharp and bittersweet; for her heart is a door she's left ajar, into the dark and mysterious caverns of the things she does not, yet, fear.

Her eyes are closed. She is listening. Feeling. Waiting. Touching the things that are growing, and letting herself glow under the courageous twist of twilight.

And there, high above her, he is sleeping in his castle. Waiting with warm arms, in stone walls, to wrap around her freckled body and pull her to his ground.

Their earth moves more slowly, turning on a jeweled spoke. Their secrets keep them quiet  as they fumble in the dark. Turning and hoping and breathing. Reaching for humanity.

Clack, clack clack goes the black and white keys. Typing out what soon will be a memory.

But freckled angels are all we are.
Our earthly skin planted in the rich soils of life.
Riddled with our gifts of love.
Sewn through with our impending time.
Our courage, our stories, our laughter, our fear,
the only things that keep us together when we are so destitute to be defined.