At dusk these days, the sky is an apple. Clouds of dust have settled down. Rheumy mists discreetly entangle themselves on the trunks of sycamores, hang like scallops from the earlobes of the atmosphere. Perception has become a dizzying blush.
Sometimes I run my fingers on its firmness, and I stop at the blemishes, yellow and scabrous- think of the flesh beneath, wonder if the wounds are too deep to birth rivers sub rosa. A cut at the core cradles in its kind nook the seeds of continuity. When I exhale, the carbon dioxide is heavy with hope again.
Leaves unpin themselves, float in the crispness of detachment. My hair is papery, fanning out against a sickle-shaped star. The earth pats her tectonic plates. The red is a luscious gloss, plump cheeks swell with smoothness. No one talks of sin.
From the shade, a snake heaves a cathartic sigh and is gone.
Linked to D’verse MTB The things we see