The sun will soon rise. I sing to the moon, but it refuses to stay. There are rules that cannot be broken. Firmer still, laws that must not be defied.
I open my door and the wind pushes me, not in, but away.
I know the significance of my body’s defeat. The tension headaches, the fibromyalgia, the abdominal pain. It is my history, the trauma, words unsaid.
There is an owl that follows me. If it is a hallucination, I have embraced it. No matter where I go, I hear its language. It is as attentive to me, as I am to it. Almost, just almost, I can hear it whisper. Then I remember that I have always been the type to turn the mundane into a spiritual experience. Overcooked carrots knew about the Nag Hammadi texts before they were discovered. The clouds are billowy directions to various entry points into alternate dimensions. Thunder is the obnoxious song from that one Native American boy who never turned into a wolf.
If every day holds a promise, then every night must hold answers.