Nothings coming. What I know of the world is bottlenecked behind my insufficient talent. If I could conjure the urgency of my heart into a single sentence or simply describe the hummingbirds nectared lance spearing the contents of a blossom while a tom cat pads toward him through the peonies. Hell, Id drink to that. But I cant conjure an opener, not a trickle of truth, let alone a stream of unconsciousness made conscious by a paragraph that proves we still have our humanity, inalienable from our flesh, as long as there is a glass of even-filled to offer a toast, soil and sun, toil and trouble, the intoxication of summer days spent down by the river, young-limbed and bramble wild, splashing through the current, stealing the first kisses in battered pick-up trucks with Patsy playing and one knee painstaked against the steering wheel. What was her name who dared to wetly whisper your favorite tune into your ear, with the scar on her hip, and the father that died in a grassfire? We all yalp sweetly and mark an X in our own way to state we are alive. Patience. Of course faith ferments, if you sit on your green urgency too long. But whats the hurry? Have a sip of wine, swish it across your tongue. What we all know of sorrow, let this moment stand as fruitful enough. Edit later.
~RMA
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