Some mornings, she awakes and there are ravens mixing like fall Picasso – all browns and blacks and oranged umber caramel fog quadrangles and split-time theory, cello string ripe apple juices – with the patchwork leaves. She’ll sit at the window maybe, or under the red maple, and feel the minutes inside her. As though time were a ghost river, and her body a living aqueduct, emptying into the air through waterfall fingertips. Time is the color of invisible eggplants, and she is a warm pearl sliding along its length.
The clouds are shapes cut from old notebook paper, writ-over with worn gilt words in a language no one speaks. She loves the swirl of the letters over the page; the way they leap and crash and hold the light that loops its way through the matrix of ancient tropospheric scroll like logosynthesis, converting photons to long complex piano concertos and the feel of sorrow and birdsong on the roof of your mouth.
There is a hollow place inside of her and she says she loves the hollow place because she can stand in it and feel the wind. And because now and again one of the paper clouds tears loose from the sky and is caught in the whirling clear black center, and she does not think but leaps aboard. And lying on her back on the raft made of song and silent, unheard poem, in the emptiness of her own vast atmosphere, she hears stars falling through the lens of day. Their music is flint and steel and xylophone time-lapse redwood seedling. She hums along as they streak past, leaving trails burned into the air of magma-longing for a home they have yet to build.