I’m fond of the early morning before the world gets bustling. When dew is still on the grass and the sky turns off the stars, the wind tickles serenity. The alone is peaceful in the light and the city air isn’t clogged. Coffee smells good and I still have the torn remnants of my dreams to flip. The rest of the day summons a rather beastly apathy in me. Night brings spring eternal in blessings. Breeze baby, breeze.
I always wanted someone to be proud of me, not just say they were. I yearned for a historic moment, where I would bounce above hindering obstacles and persevere through pain and heartache. I’d prevail like a dry hero at sunrise after the apathy deluge. It never occurred to me that I could be proud of myself
Instead, life fell all heavy late June heat wave on me and cold showers only took my breathe away. I was drowning in sweat and tears. The dog was always lazy and every song on the radio reminded me of some other blue dream. I didn’t mind so much until I remembered that everybody lives.
The sun rose just before six a.m. I thought the orb must be magnificent. Bury your mind like an ostrich if you want, but that orange sphere this morning made me real secure. Hanging bright on the horizon, our sun made all my dreams drift away and the ocean thought of me. My past stretched out like broken elastic and even though I could only see the sun hang under an overpass of the highway, I thought of the green hills of South Dakota and glowing Mekong Delta. I wanted to think of big rock formations in Utah or maybe some pyramids in Egypt, but I prefer how the sun shimmers off water to how it glows in sand.
I bang around bars and bathrooms because I feel fine placed there. Anytime is too much when the hours slow and not enough when you have to get nowherefast. The examination of the cobwebs hopes I can still hide a smidgen of who I am. I want an only secret. I want to keep any part of myself for the end. I don’t envision more than that, but I see a whole lot of the else.
The white painted cedar shake on the old farmhouse is flaking. The exposed wood peeks through and turns a shallow weather canon of space. Some of the shingles are warped and yawn out from their tight shuffle. Weeds thrive in the loose gutters and the weather vane on the carriage house has ceased squeaking. City cats roam the adjacent lot where an old oak growls a gnarly silence.
From the boulevard, light rainbows off the curved lead glass windows of the turret that pokes out of the attic. I can smell the lake blocks away in the drift of wind that carries the honks of geese. The white house feels like a translucent blue echo in the morning light and I cannot determine if it is me or us. The bright orange of the dragon lilies in front of the crumbling foundation and dilapidated rotting doric pillars of the porch, point bright to the sky.
The lawn is partially mowed and a push lawnmower with dull blades sits like an abrupt sculpture half carved in the side lot, the nose arrow rooster vane points to it. The magic of the wet grass is spun in wake of tall white clovers that live near the fence. Yellow crowns of dandelions take a view. The earth underneath is cool and gives.
When the morning began to fade into heat and humidity I retired to the back porch that feels the shade. Thunder roamed the break of heady air like a voracious predator. Smoke lingered from my lungs and hung like a curtain in the air. Stinky garlic and beer seeped from my pores. Mosaics of lightning cracked the sky and the world darkened and the sun was a faint lantern beckoning. Cool air folded over and the dog turned his tail between his legs with the sharp cracks of lightning and the rumble of trickled thunder.
The rain fell. It pounded the worn roof and watered the gutter weeds. Drip. Cool air danced over the moat and slammed the drawbridge. Then as soon as it started, it stopped. The dog lapped some water and the vapid transgressions of the day left me with a periwinkle sky.