The Dwelling Place

November 8, 2017
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Manifestations of my soul:

Resilient purple crocuses resurrecting through the snow;
Petrichor–the aroma of parched earth after rain;
Peony petals softer than trickling water;
The scent of grandma’s pillow–sweet and familiar like honey for the bees;
Tumble-dried fabric pulled above the knees,
Warm and lavender-scented like a sunny meadow;
Words that go down like chamomile tea, the soft f and v in “forgive”;
Cuddles–the first cousin of bubble baths, hugs–the great grandmother;
Casette tapes clicking into place, Dan Fogelberg’s mellifluous musings;
Meteor showers, shimmering streaks across pearl-strewn skies;
Summer nights as sweet and fluid as watermelon drippings;
Forests on forearms, trees erected by goosebumps–
The dwelling place of hungry wolves;
Howling at the harvest moon, they say
“Te amo hasta la luna, ida y vuelta.”*


* Spanish phrase meaning “I love you to the moon and back”

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