So ethereal, the way the water pools into my cupped hands; its velvety caress and the cacophony of unpatterned rhythm lure me in to a tantric state. The being becomes what it surrounds itself with, the enlightenment comes from acceptance and awareness of this magical world around us. I am on a higher plane and outer space can be so refreshing.
It was an Iowa spring that made me love sunrises and cloudy days. It was in the coolness of raindrops that fell upon my face and in the freshness of petrichor in the air that I awoke spiritually.
Barefoot amidst the movement of lapping, cold waves—a gentle soul walks onward into the ocean. Mangrove branches loop out from the water and marine alluvium soils. Tiny fish grow within the intertidal zone, protected by the plants and disrupted by her calm feet digging into the sand. Hair wild amidst the cool sun rays softly kissing each eye into a deeper caramel hue. The water against her strong ankles as low pools fill and recede into the Earth. Gusts pick up cooling a body flowing in tandem with the ocean waves as the heart connects to the soul of the ocean.
Recalling nights when the gentlest of hands tucked loose strands of hair behind my ear. When lips softly touched porcelain skin with care to not smudge, with care to not break and I knew what it was to love.
The silk of words that ran down my spine left me reminders that I was once yours and you were once mine. We walked hand in hand to the cherry blossoms and laid one another down onto dewy grass and crisp air that woke us from the trance we had been in prior.
In unison we could breathe in filling the lungs of each other in ways that the spring breeze could not. You were my Buddhist and I your lotus flower and together we laid our souls bare with love at that hour.
A strand of seaweed stranded on crashing waves. The water’s surface reflecting the sun’s place.
I’m breathing the salty taste,
Of ocean water in a daze.
In one moment I’m inept
At making sense of thoughts that I have kept,
Hidden and swept,
Under imaginary rugs that inside my mind I have left.
A purple butterfly glides over the creek.
The power of its wings tend to seek,
Destinations that can beat,
The spirit of its journey into the waters’ deep.
The tall grass is now swaying.
I am at the ledge, looking, sitting,
At the fish in water that keep jumping,
To awaken me and calm the thumping.
Healing heart and head.
The mangos are ripe for falling off the trees—their beautiful range of coloration is from deep purple to green, then yellow, then ripe red. They’re comrades of the salty wind blowing through the long, pointed green leaves. That same wind wafts the scent of salt and pulpy sweetness begging for you to sink your teeth into it. Now the wind has brought forth the scent of sour oranges, lemony and citrus-like, yet sweet. The sour oranges lie in waiting for full maturity; they have almost met their goal as they prepare for their descent from its branches. The avocados wait, unready to meet the standards of maturity. They have much yet to grow. In September, their fragility will be its all-encompassing factor as our meals become laden with the soft feel of cool avocado pieces. The guavas are also ready, their flowers in full bloom as its fruit screams to be picked lest it rot on the branch and fall. The combination of fruits and moist salty air is refreshing to bones that saw winter for much too long in the plains of Iowan fields. Florida is a heaven on Earth waiting to bring forth all of its produce. My home is finally becoming familiar to me once again with every sway of the palm fronds reminding me of the sound of waves of a warm and clear blue beach.
We don’t need to reach up to the trees, their fruits will fall. We just need to stoop low as we bow in gratitude for the fruits of their labor. Colorful butterflies should be thanked as well, for filling up the scene with their random beauty. I will bow as frequently as I should until the sky stops mirroring the color of the ocean, the mangoes, the butterflies, the sour oranges, and the baby avocadoes. The sun will be the color of strawberries when the sun makes its last descent into the trees and sea. My body feels airy, as if it were preparing to fly alongside the butterflies frequenting my small little piece of heaven. Just wait until the jasmine blooms and the coconuts begin to fall. The orchids have already graced us with their satiny presence.
We come from above and fall down, down, down like the rain droplets outside my window. We crash into puddles composed of those who have crashed before. Thank goodness there’s someone there to break our fall. We all drop together in single file lines, next to each other as if we were each boxes in an infinite Rubik’s cube. We’re gray and we bring forth the green and pink color of the trees outside. We’re cold out there, but we’re so warm inside. We are excited with the energy of each atomic bond waiting to break as we evaporate when the sun comes up. We make our surroundings humid when enough of us have fallen and the rain has stopped because it’s as if we need to be in some balance resulting from the disarray of each droplet on the ground and atmosphere.
I thought about my friend today and his friend. I realized that they seem like two halves separated from one soul. One is halfway empty and the other halfway full. One flows like the liquid that has spilled from the cup whereas the other is compact and flexible, but dries out less easily. All I do is observe like the cardinal, red and the same color as its insides. I keep looking around as my wings become drenched in the droplets of those souls who have fallen and continue to fall and have the misfortune of crashing into me. I’ll never stop writing run-ons.