I wake to the sound of rain and the reverence of early morning. Contemplative among a cathedral grove of mist soaked trees and head bowed to the page under my knees, bent in genuflected repose toward a spark, with air, makes flame, gives heat. The ritual of a well tended fire reminds me to pay attention to those things I require.
Air, fuel, spark.
I am wrapped in quiet, a conduit for thoughts unprocessed and dreams yet to be realized. I allow the words to gently pull themselves from tangled corners of sleep curled hair and subconscious. We smile, delighted by the familiarity. This is my longest intimate relationship, my love of prose and the way it flows so free when I allow the spirit to both move and be moved by me.
I delight in both the sacred, and the profane beauty of it, grateful.