Arising again.
Awakening at dawn to finally clear skies and a canopy of stars.
To a grouping some society long ago decided was Orion.
Arising to read the self.
A reading via soft light of the half moon.
A reading of other agreements scattered in the pages of books on the desk.
A reading of cool air pushing through the sliding door that leads to
a balcony overlooking a sea of somebodies and somethings,
of pine needles, dozing dandies, and way beyond a flopping sea lion on a bell buoy somewhere.
A reading of how many itches on a skin that’s seen 54 years.
Maybe not the same skin.
Maybe not the same player within.
Maybe not even a person but just a bundle of ideas walking around a host of bacteria.
A hermit crab shell.
A persistent group of thoughts huddling for decades in a place becoming for a soul.
A party of a soul wandering hallways of sound and sight,
occasionally tasting a manic delight.
