I sit here and wonder when to put the pot on for tea, or lemon water. I dress myself for any event the same, from the feet. From there, the illusion of my feeling inside of my bones. What colour is my marrow today?
Dark black pants that stretch and hold my legs taut. Leather worn boots and some soft thrifted sweater. The ever present scarf of earth toned grounding. Underneath, I let my small breasts beat against my heart without the hold of a bra. They can be free, in their subtle secrecy.
My sun feather strands wildly drift where they wish, most days here they are covered in a warm cap and kept simple in their thoughts.
My mind is like the milky white clouds above the mountains on the road to work. Mayonnaise thoughts and vanilla inspiration. The electric tugs of shift are near. It is always just under the rug, or just around the chairs of the dining nook table. But then, I never move things as thoroughly as I should when I vacuum the floors.