twenty-one

i’m not ready.

standing in a field of green and yellow grass and wheat –
i had been falling, falling, falling down.
when i woke up yesterday afternoon the sun was gone
and i was cold;
you could have been in a million-and-a-half different places,
none of which were by my side.
golden.

there have been a lot of words floating in and out my brain
every so often, perhaps, such as the time i was walking down the street
to meet them at the beach (hoping you would be there, too)
i thought of all the syllables needed
for the structure of those sentences
that i never ended up writing.

i feel myself getting back into the groove.
i’ll sort this out.
if not, it will sort itself.
it always does.
this hurricane is what it is:
a ball of wind and ferocious curiosity,
winding and tumbling through city, field and sky,
engulfing the landscape in rain and ruckus.
us.

i’m beginning to love this mess.
happy birthday.