Tommorow

One woman in the rain.
Who tells herself that she doesnt need a man.
She looks out itno the sun. Adamant. Defiant.
She has been told that the sun will blind her. That is why she looks.


The fog is lifting. The day feels fresh. Like hot doughnuts. Or sparkling sunlight in a wineglass. The smoke catches its last driftwood home. Its moving out into the sea.

She raises her head.

Is it really gone? She wonders.

Memory traps. But it also squeezes tiny shards of painful honey, out of its crevices. Like handmade paper, she bends under the wind. Like a reed. Hollow. Making music, but hollow without the wind. Dry. Silent.

She rethinks. She isn't a reed. But does she need him? No. She wants him.
Ah. There's the catch. The tiny, secret trapdoor in her perfectly wooden staircase to tommorow.
She wants him.

Where is he, right now?She wonders.

Distance matters. Tangible distance. Motorways, and roads, and highways and landing strips. And the sea, of course. They all congregate under "distance". Was she responsible?..Was "distance" responsible?

Kaledioscope of confusion. Reds and blues and yellows and greens. Broken bits of a mirror. Each bit calls out to a different ribbon of voices in the spectrum. Red. And blue. And yellow. Green. Where is SHE? She wonders.

How do you tell if you've really lost something? When the road that she walks on today, bends suddenely, she can no longer be sure which path she was walking on yesterday. The present tangles the past. She is no longer sure.

Her hands reach out. Fingertips grazing the underside of a dark blue pigeon. One of its wings has an ivory-colored feather. One white feather. In a host of blue. Should she pull it out? She wonders.

No. She likes to see it fly with that one white feather. Slashes of blue on a hot, swollen sky. And one strip of white. When the pigeon moves the white weaves through the blue like a ribbon. Pulsating. Connecting.

She paints a picture in the sky. And flies with her pigeon.