Last night the thunder clapped

the rain sneezed

the cold flail its hands

the wild animals in the forest coughed

and I closed the window and pulled the covers to my neck.

This morning the fog lounged and sauntered over the mountain range elegantly as a bride’s laced veil.

I could hear the patter of my heart.  I could hear the earth’s chatter.

I knew the smell of morning and the call of life.

My eyes searched for something more tangible, a green sweetness, contained as the dates I suck each morning.

Moving further, I stopped to observe old tools carefully collected and arranged — an installation — the aesthetic functionality of discarded implements.

I am committed to this time.

I am consumed by this project.

I am covetous for the right words.

I pause and stare seeking to reveal

what I need to know…what I already know.

Heading to breakfast, a worm drying in the fleeting sun solicits my gaze

I remember as a child digging for worms in my mother’s garden.

As a woman planting my own garden, I would hold the worms gently between middle finger and thumb and place then strategically back into the earth.

Preparing to fish, I would observe the worm’s body as the hook entered its translucent skin. Do fish really like worms?  What do they taste like? Perhaps another time I might fry some.

I walk the path, moving up and down, seeking the right angle to aim my camera. What did I do before these other lenses?  Do I trust my eyes and my memory to see and record?

Like a starved child, I follow the fog, feeling  a hand slip softly into my blouse — the memory of desire and attraction.

Murder and loss could happen here, unrecorded.   How many and for how long?  Who is counting?  Who is missing?

But this is not a land where mayhem happens.   This is a place of creation and reflection

Here in the mountain, gripped with cypresses and olive trees, where howling and baying rebound like a ball tide to a pole being banged by a bat in the hands of a bored boy, there is only possibility on possibilities, a scent of trespass, a longing for surprised discovery.

The mountain heaves. The fog prances and the heart locates its wings.

Around the bend I am reminded of the surprised birthday party, more than 30 years ago, that Pamela hosted for me.

The red reminds me of the deep desire I had for a man I knew was a philanderer  but his skin was chocolate. I was not yet twenty-one, already married and had left my husband.

Red is not the color of desire.  Red is lust better left untouched — not consumed. Red is the way into tomorrow.