Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Waking The Dead
Photo credit: Irish_Eyes from morguefile.com
I was alive and spinning. Cheeks pressed against cold windows on my birthday. The imperfect nature of the world was, by nature, perfect.
In the swish-swish-swish of the windshield wiper blades and the coffee and cigarette mornings with am radio.
And the green leaf haze of a July afternoon when he came to the house in his new red convertible.
There were necklaces to wear, marbles to shoot, cherries to pick.
My fingernails were always dirty and they had to chase me down to wash my hair.
These things are dead things. But when I write, I wake them.