"A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2013."
This boy loves nothing more than to be outside, rain or shine. His speech is increasing, in fluency, if not in clarity, and he reads his books out loud to himself. I'm scrabbling to keep him entertained inside. I'm miserable in the humidity. My soul was bred for cooler climes.
We've been talking about ghosts, magic, and holy superstition, and as the year climbs toward the summer solstice, I feel a familiar restlessness. It's a frequent and re-occuring visitor in my life. I think if let my feet walk where they would, they'd take me straight to the sea. Maybe this is a sign I'll start writing again soon; like the itching of a scab beneath which new, pink skin grows. A poem of mine was accepted into Dappled Things, and one is due to come out in Goblin Fruit late this summer.
Today, the storm broke and hacked at lush earth like blades.