Spring pt 2

Wearing a New Story, y'know, so many tones. All one has to do is pick, and write blind-sided

Hullo little one.
Perhaps this will be a letter of sorts? I began writing an essay before opening up a new draft. I got so far as to write two or three sentences but quickly gave it up as too complex a subject which also had no supporting evidence.

Should a letter contain a subject? Or at least a theme all throughout to bind the writing together into a whole, neatly tied at the end? I'm not entirely sure. Sometimes I'll just write everything, or a great deal of what is on my mind, and I'll find it leads itself back to the beginning, all neatly drawn together with no conscious effort on my part. I haven't done that in forever. I guess I lost my muse for a time, though that might be a melodramatic statement. Deep breath...
Anyway, I guess Summer is drawing near, if it is the passing of time you wish to hear about, an account of days; perhaps an account of the firsts of the season. I got my first significant sunburn planting my garden last Sunday. The work was good, the sunburn, not so much. It lingers on longer than I expected it to, but then, nothing seems to be exactly as I expect it to be; the lilacs, love; they smell a hundred times better than I remember them smelling. If only I could wear a perfume of lilacs... It wouldn't even have to be all year 'round...
Like I said, Summer is drawing near, the days grow long and hot, and the heads of the foxtail begin to dry out and flake apart. Bad news for me, I'm working a job weeding several blocks down the road, and foxtails are easier to pull out and keep contained when they are still green and supple.
The ground is drying out, muted colors creeping from the dirt up through the stalks of unwatered plants, the wide strip of weeds between our fence and the road turning brown and crunching underneath bare feet. Storks Bill curling onto itself while Cheat Grass drops its head-full of long seeds to the dust. The stream rages, dirty dun-colored, racing onwards to the North; snowmelt slipping away from our little valley to cities and towns beyond.
These are the things one notices as a product of being raised in the desert by parents anxious for the future, and empathetic to the living cycle all around. And there, I suppose, is my subject.
Yours,
Amoniel

Spring pt 1

I am hungry, but I can say nothing of what they are

So it has been a very long time since I last wrote something long and driveling and soul excavating on this blathering blog home of mine, dusty, stale boot prints be durned.
Where to begin, little brother? Where to begin?
City people make my heart feel like a desert. First the Beehive Bazaar, and today, the weekend of Heritage (The thief of Memorial.) But today was different in that I spoke to at least two strangers who made me feel human instead of like a hot air balloon. All of the cotton-candy words I spin to keep these seemingly hollow people filled up... but of course, they aren't hollow. How could they actually be hollow? They must be human.
I am so tired and my legs are branches turned upside down. It was good to walk through rain-wet grass and alfalfa by the roadside this evening, it was good to renew my connection to the ground after a day standing and walking and answering questions and peering into unknown eyes.
Still, it was beautiful. Draining, but beautiful. Always beautiful, always an opportunity to learn and grow. Any dissatisfaction I experience would be an extension of my own yearning, my own wanting, my own missing. And, love, I miss so very much. 

Speaking to one within

A new motto of mine, 

Little sister of my heart: 

I can do hard things. 

Sunset Panorama

(Best to click on them and view them original size)

Winter's last sigh

The floor of this old house
breathes foot-chilling cold
through its chipped linoleum
and pine planks,

like the earth expunging
the last winter air from its lungs,
awakening from five months' sleep.

My home,
-adobe flesh and wooden skeleton-
solid in place,
A wizened squatter covered
in clothes from many decades,

more connected with the life
in the soil than you might think;
the land's conduit

as the valley expels
the last chill of winter,
making room for Summer's warmth