Tin roof hail

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Patti smith and a bath that leaves me dry in the knuckles but warm in the bones

Donkey Gospel in the hail

Pit pat on the tin roof

I always wanted a tin roof

prayer flags

a fireplace

and plants

plants

It has been here waiting

What is there to grasp?

Olives and cheese plates to soak in

and deep adoration of all that these walls hold

Sometimes I think

that after my soul leaves this fleshy body

it will fly out into the night – (because it will be night)

into the drift

of roads and tall tall trees that loom in shadowy highway streches of west coast dreams

I wonder often if dreams are just a collection of all the small moments we perceived happening somewhere else, or perhaps in another life, happening alongside our own.

I dreamt I hitched a ride

Everyone of us in the van were given a large smooth stone by a border security man

Mine was half dark sea blue and half white. Oblong, the size and shape resembling a small watermelon, or gourd

I asked if anyone in the ride would like to trade

I did not feel attached to mine

Everyone calmly replied , with a look of understanding,

“The stones choose you. It is your stone.”

I felt a heavy understanding, maybe small shame in my request

We arrived at the long stretch of white sand, after a parking lot of busy movement

and beyond that, a glittering sea.

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