Returning from clear air and angled landscapes equally tenacious and grand.
For a week, I was an artist.
A believer.
A sister.
For a week the sharpened air eroded doubt and disclaimers,
laying elemental identities bare under the black altar of the flint hill.
For a week, I was an artist.
(a surprisingly good one)
A believer.
(a holy enthusiastic one)
A sister.
(a deeply grateful one)
I returned to a city saturated with rain and chlorophyll.
The thick air cushions like too much bubble wrap surrounding an unbreakable object:
a spatula or a souvenir spice packet.
In this density, I forget the things last week I was.
An artist.
A believer.
A sister.
I close my eyes and see the flat-topped watcher,
my last view before the car turned left.
My hands start working invisible clay,
documenting what changed and
preserving what is waiting for my return.
Like Georgia, I will go back there to be home.
What a gift to be shown your core. You are so much more than you’ve imagined. Love you.
- sissy