I slept fitfully last night, whimpering in my sleep and twitching until I could no longer stand it. I finally got up and doubled a dose of sleep tincture and rubbed arnica cream on my legs and inner elbows and slathered sleep salve all over my body.
I am not sure if I slept.
I feel horrible this morning.
The drive to work, now five minutes longer, but miles longer, is stunning. The clouds are purple, the mist rises off the fields, the grass was purple now it is frosted I check the temperature, but no it is not frozen, it just looks like it is. The corn is field after field of russet surrounded by the yellow of golden rod and some purple flower, perhaps aster. The fence and the barn shrouded in mist all they need is for someone to let loose the horses that are there in the afternoon.
The river looks like ghosts rising up out of the crystalline depths.
You are a ghost today, rising from the depths of my murky waters. You left me 7 years ago today.
Here by the river a solitary heron, a kind of round circle, to say this, stands silhouetted against the mist of the river and the sun glaring brightly behind it. Its shadow is not fifteen feet from my car as it zips along the winding road.
Someone said it is often not losing a person that is the sorrowful thing, and in this case it is not losing the person, it is losing the idea the person represented, that kills us.
My idealistic ways are ghosts rising up out of the depths.
My trust is like the heron, solitary, and shadowy.
My whimpering, is the baby that I am, as I cannot find relief even to sleep, and the nightmares torture me as they always have.
I am a pool of acid and dry ice.
I am a canal filled with sewage.
I am a lake whose deepest rocky depth has not been found.
I am a cold drink on a hot day.
I am the ocean.
I am a drop of rain.
I am a mountain lake as clear as the bright blue sky.
I am a trickle of cold shower water on an autumn morning.
I am a river of ghosts.
I am dew on purple grass.
I am the mist that rises from the corn fields.