In the same garden as the Tiger, perhaps by a different path, and without the amber and black couture.
Hibernating through Summer and Spring in a climate of drought and crazy heat. Waiting for temperate winter, cooking fruit cake, watching the ruby chard seedlings sprouting, collecting seed, learning to sleep at night and wake for the day.
A head filled with white mutiny, resistant to the avenues back into commerce and contact. It is, again, hard to read, distracted, the receptors are dulled. Practice with scrabble online, one word at a time, one friend at a time, small losses, small victories.
She goes to the gym with eyes shut. Finally trying those bikes that go nowhere and finding they fit her purpose. A room crowded with people who are looking to redefine themselves. The music helps, shouting coaches do not.
Making red cooked pork ribs, packing lunches, feeding dogs, old patterns, household infrastructure, analog, synchopated, out of step with the urban flow. Restless shadow, black-clad stage hand for a public life. This pattern was a good fit for other times, for other people. These hands learned different skills. She steps into the moment, relearning the rhythm of writing in dust.
Evening and the house waxes rowdy. Voices, call signs, the prattle of television and the insistence of dog noses. The kettle is busy with hot drinks. The smell of solder smoke or the rattle of the keyboard, the darkness always feels more alive.
An old form in the forgotten elbow of a river, perhaps another nymph or chrysalis, perhaps a final form. Not sure where the future lies. Careful to place her feet well. Waiting for clarity. Purpose is a slippery fish.