Mellow,
gray skies,
just rain now, not winter,
a fire then,
warms my skin,
my face plain old, yes
but glowing,
an afternoon in,
I open a bottle of red, why not?
What else is there to do
‘cept get tipsy,
and think about a million lost boys?

I want to walk again,
to run,
outside,
fresh and moving,
toward the goal of an hour,
at least,
with my badass blood pumping,
lungs filled,
air unsullied,
no virus,
or words unkind,
no obnoxious thoughts,
or wishes lost to the wind,
wishes not coming back again.

There is a hanging ’round my head,
my age, yes
older bones,
and pillow bags,
and knees that pop and snap,
I feel myself ticking,
each beat drops a goodbye cadence,
but I am here now, yes
not sputtering,
not quite past,
still juicy,
still wanting,
still climbing fast.

The darkness reveals a wayward truth,
the truth about existing,
how we hold ourselves,
pinned.

At night, time is blind,
we spend it privately resisting,
when comes knocking the sound
of mellow rain, not winter,
a gentle whisper, insisting,
as we quietly tread—
“find your own light,
inside your own magic,
inside your own miracles,
instead.”

~