Josie's Mug

I am a vagabond, going about in a vagabond way from the fly-away ponytail to the scaly feet which callous and shiver away in the grassy bed I’ve taken for my own purpose.

You won’t hear me complain, oh no, baby, I am not the bloodless breed you see wagging along in the streets with stiff collars growing stiffer in the sparkling sunlight they find so joyless.

Prop me up against the willow tree there and face me west.

Better yet, don’t touch me at all and let the wind be my escort.

I write with the pen of an age not yet passed, the ink the blood of a blustered beckoning to be something–someone–anyone really, more than that.

To be someone boasting of blood and half-made of sunlight and planting calloused feet and swishing a fly-away ponytail, to have the patience to hear that church bell chime five times and to hum along with the rumbling trains.

Reach into my pockets and you won’t find the same regret that weighs the masses to the bottom of the sea-floor.

You will find April sunlight in my pockets, baby, and a crunchy hug of willow leaf.

I shake off shoes and snuggle against Earth and both of us sigh, amused with each other and inspired by each other and in love with each other never dancing carefully nor talking quietly nor walking gently nor spending wisely nor laughing casually nor driving slowly nor loving lightly.

And never holding tightly.

We love each other because we both speak a language of freedom and evolution.

This adaptability of ours is not dependent upon the choices of the human race.

Sometimes I am shy in the lean midst of such a raw force, intimidated by the angry ocean of inadequacies inherited from my ancestors and fostered into maturity by my society, ashamed at my distractibility and raging appetite for more and more and more forgetting first to chew and to swallow and clasp my hands together in contemplative gratitude.

I love her because I want to be her and she loves me because she doesn’t have to.

I ask for the right to leave first–when I get scared of evolving too much–and as I scamper away towards fluorescent lighting and manufactured oxygen I smell her quiet approval.

She cannot teach me what I need to learn if I do not practice returning.

Ours is a language of freedom and she is teaching me the way of the wind.

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