Garden at Dawn
This morning, it drizzled, almost as though droplets of water were suspended, charged to the air, and I was merely a bodily invasion of a me-sized shape, bound in that space. It was quiet, thinned to cool prickles that dappled skin. A robin exclaimed, held by the outermost branch of a pear tree, his words cut, a knife to the heaviness of night to reach the gentleness of dawn. There is room for compassion in these embryonic hours, perhaps it is the solitude - being the last woman - and the judgements of others, that might descend in their own fine mist of possibility, are absent. And he is not here, and I am safe. This early universe and I are permeable, reformed from darkness; the garden and I remade in green, not caring where the dew ends and I begin. The fragile petals of papaver, red crepe, wrapped in a sleep that can only be broken with warmth, in the fullness of light. Awoken then, there is no past to rewind or relive, so when I told the lilac tree, today, that it was 5am, it replied that, here, time means nothing.
Image is of my own garden. Written at 5am in my garden.