Another sunny walk to watch anemones bloom in hooded clearings. I am finally able to Identify the call of green woodpeckers and blue herons. I collect flowers in bags with wet paper napkins and proceed to stealing walks into forbidden cottage fields.
Cars swoosh by and bees awake alongside. I tip-toe to their tune. A bluer shade of sea wash ashore, revealing trees admiring birds’ nests in their hair. I find the crushed seashells I picked from the children’s sand castles to be excellent potfillers for miniature cacti.
Yesterday, a pink desert star rose from underneath the tiny beach. It took me by surprise. The way most loves do. Make-believe ones or otherwise.
Just like shadows become clearer in the month of spring. I wave happily to myself walking by. The perfect baseball cap making the sun’s sting gentle on my already freckled nose. Another sunny walk to watch myself bloom in hooded clearings. Make-believe ones or otherwise.
I have walked in small shoes for days. Back and forth. Sometimes pebbles wear down my socks. Sunny ditches free of frost border roads. I walk alongside them.
Deeper into days that roll over, brush against my blue legs, wanting to be scratched. I bend down to pick up the shiniest stones and store them in my pockets. I tuck beachy sand with broken shells around my beds.
I walk every day. To my room, to the city, to the beach. With my head in gray clouds I search for glimpses of light with shaded eyes. Seagulls watch me from white poles. They scream. Scream. Screaming to be fed by the sea gushing under bridges. I walk on bridges.
Bridges over boats. I look into eyes of stone floating on surf. Smile. Smile to the sea. Smile to me. Before we blow away. Fall into yellow ditches. Fall into wayside Love.
This week I have been climbing vertical stairs to find moments of ascended peace. It has been an exceptionally sunny week.
In the wayside, a Colt’s Foot brought colors of Spring, I didn’t pick it. I left it to bloom taller. I wore bright pink lipstick to make people smile. Where are they all going in the early morning hours? I am going towards tomorrow.
Glass clear Horizon with frosty breath. Skinny winter sun. Strawberries for breakfast. Blackbirds and little tigers in the woods. Ice breaking around orange mooring poles. Was it a seal tossing white water towards the shore? Or just a sound of what’s to come.
Angels are still asleep underground. I pick feathers to paint with. Brushes are too expensive. Stroke soft hair against my bare skin. The sky opens and my feet start to warm up.
I start walking home. See you again on the sunny road.