From my bedroom I hear birds chirping, waking up. Sunrise in 34 minutes.
I write, picturing the dusty blue of pre dawn veiling the crispness of night, picturing groping in the dusk to the raspberry patch, collecting first fruits of July, in tears of remembering my bodily longing for this moment of tactile revelation from afar; the gentle tug of the plump berry in to my hand, marveling at the oblong perfection, the splash of color on my mouth.
The sweetness of fulfilled longings tinged with the holy grief that seasons end. That closeness will ebb due to the limitations of time zones and presence and capacity, the slow dance of holding and releasing.
