twenty-fourth of march, two thousand and twenty one

dear alba,
I am remembering
No, actually, I am walking
on a byzantineweb of trails (more black widow chaos than orb weaver symmetry), arroyo and hill (so many walks through the palmcrease of arroyos this year; beautiful, a tad hard on the calves)
my tongue is out to catch the
slight shake of snow flakes.
Veils and virga weave over the Sangres and plains- cobalt and ghost, cerulean and watchful, grey gauze, ripple and weft.
Not sure if I’ve been on this path before, they can all look the same.
I dropped my boy off, reticent and hesitant at something new; never his favorite and 13 months of pandemicmarinade have not made those things easier.
I know. How I know.
I try daily walks to try to keep my soul in the sunshine.
And now the snow spirits away, and I am caught in what my papa called gods’ rays (he actually called them something different, but we won’t put that here)
I am caught in the rays
dear alba -
I am remembering a feast
fourteen and a half months ago,
at a borrowed house. Rooms, open and warm- filled with color
A long table filled with food and clatter, a glass offered, clink - a stool, elbows on the counter amidst the dishes, a chair, choir of bites and voices. Maybe candles. Probably flowers. A pitcher of shared water. Shared drink. You made a feast.
People brought a feast.
Tastes and smiles and treats.
I savored then.
But I did not savor enough. We definitely did not know to savor enough.
I am remembering.
If you offered me two doors- the feast or the tiger,
I would take the risk. Pick a door.
To be at that talking table again.
So good for the soul. Food for the soul.
Just a few moments to bask in the people, sitting so casually. Savor.
Then back to my labyrinth of sky and these meandering, suncaught - and sometimes on rare whispered days snow tossed -palmgauzedveil arroyos.