It has been said more than once that I seem to always be on the verge of something.
Catharsis.
Something about the way I am charged speaks to change.
It is no mistake that Papa Legba and I dance together, keeping gates.
Perpetual motion, mist, water, ice.
Remember this?
New Hope:
Not Pennsylvania, but Providence. Divine Providence's trial by white fire and empty arms. Beyond imagining or creation.
It's been said that someone who would go to sea without a darn good reason would go to hell for a holiday.
Purgatory Chasm. This really happened.
I emerge again; soul translucent with fresh, smooth scars. Is there anything left where the core used to be? I have become water. Once ice, shattering and imprisoning, all creaks and expansion and treachery. Now I run free, gentle change in landscape, nourishing. Break apart and come back together.
Path of least resistance.
Without pretense, I gather frogs and fishes up in clouds, I rain down on secret places like it did in the year nineteen-hundred.
The Ocean State rocks me back to awareness.
I cling to rocks and let go, drying.