“Discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” – Marcel Proust
Here, the trees are from literature, the kind which hide wild inside its bark. Living within the grass stems and rock formations: lizards and skinny squirrels.
On an early morning romp with the pup, I exhale city from my lungs. My brain forks into memories of past lives. Who was I best? How do I access that corner closet behind my kidneys that houses my widest smile?
Sometimes I fear I am most alone when I am loved.
My pup chases a family of ducks and I think about what part of my body feels most familiar. I contemplate a body not always in panic mode. I channel Proust, grow fingernail long enough to scoop out my left eye (my right one wouldn’t budge), and replace it with milkwood. I blink blink blink and attempt a resurrection.
Is it possible to rewrite how we see things. Here, in the south, Sea Grapes and Cabbage Palms. Maybe I can unfurl the roots in me that just stopped growing.
Maybe I just need to keep digging.