The sunrise makes me think it.
The pocket of time, like air, entitled in our hands. The golden reach of the morning, shuddering into pinks and purples, gently stretching across the horizon, languid. In moments, small steps, the light reaches for me, cups my chin, laughs her soft laugh and presents her glory to me, my eyes alight with fire and the new day, her wings wet and fragile.
I was as this once, dew in my pocket, my mother’s hips at the east of me, my hands in her blue skirts, clutching. Eyes wide, skin so soft it would make you fear for tomorrow. That light, those morning limbs, they would reach right into that small kitchen with the brown square carpet, lift me up, baptise me in the morning air. I would return blessed, redeemed with the surety of my being, the constancy of love which surrounded me, awed by the magic of it all.
I would grow, sure. We all do, from suckling beast to unsteady youth to breathless adulthood. But my eyes know the fire. They make communion with the light that pours from the frosted morning sky, ask it’s benediction as it’s beloved. My body feels it’s vacancy well before the sky opens, the melancholy breaths that trace fingers and lips. The dream forlorn.
The dream fragile. The dream held over, infused with longing. The dream which cradles us through the womb, and through that bright light, leaving us only the faintest taste of what it was.
That which we chase, ready to collapse our skin to touch. Our code, our keys, trapped inside our heads, bronzed by morning light.
The dream where anything is possible. This fire makes me think it.