There was a minute there I nearly loss my footing; a clumsy pirouette, bad form, out of shape. Worn down by a grueling cycle of tossing and turning. The same whirlwind, the same black hole. A fading moon, a bitter tide.
A foot with the right idea, firmly planted on the ground, the other unsure of how far to be raised, how to grip the calve, how to flex.
Today is the second day of September and already my skin feels colder. My mind wanders into a haze of pain that extends from my temple to my jaw. Old news. The threshold that even registers as such has been diminished so all the mortal wounds that have been inflicted on my body have become renewed into familiar arthritic aches. Unremarkable, shelved, a pang between the joints nested far into the marrow.
My mother's yard is different this year. One hundred and ten days of drought. The decaying oleanders that once bloomed white and pink sit in a burial of their own yellow leaves. The mulberry hangs lower; the tire from a thick, silver chain. The neighbors still have a lawn that looks pristine; ours as always, needs work.
The sun hits lazily over this part of Texas once monsoon season is over. The sky turns so bright, it greys with just a hint of powder blue. Cirrus clouds thinning just before dawn turns navy. It rains unevenly despite the forecasts. The clouds trudge but this city has too much in it for cinematic thunder.
New Mexico bound tomorrow, where some restless seeds find root.
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