I am, you anxious one.
Don't you sense me, ready to break
into being at your touch?
My murmurings surround you like shadowy wings.
Can't you see me standing before you
cloaked in stillness?
Hasn't my longing ripened in you
from the beginning
as fruit ripens on a branch?
I am the dream you are dreaming.
When you want to awaken, I am that wanting.
I grow strong in the beauty you behold.
And with the silence of stars I enfold
your cities make by time.
Exquisite. This whole process of being a writer and going into my writing practice with more seriousness is an intense one. Rilke's images and ideas of "ripening" really do resonate. Everything is there. I am the fruit. I am part of the tree. I am ripening. Can't rush fruit, green fruit is almost always inedible and bad for digestion. My book is very much green fruit at this stage but the elements are there. I've been slowly reading through it, letting it soak through me. There is a lot of pruning to be done, lots of shaping and fertilizing. So it goes.
The weather has been unseasonably cold. It gets down to the thirties at night, which is pretty damn frigid for San Diego. I had to cover my orchids last night so the frost wouldn't kill them. I'm a wuss about the cold. I bundle up in layers and try not to leave the house. I have plans tonight with the boys so I'm already planning what I'm going to wear. I'm happy I never got rid of the thick winter coat I bought during my winter in Switzerland.
I love mornings.