You wake early, again, a body reluctant to miss even one sunrise, so few remain. The early morning is silent, still, a sky of pink and mountains of muted whites like they haven't found their focus yet. Rub your eyes in tandem to see the first rays of light slice the top of the ridge into sharp relief.
Last night, out on the back porch, another communion with the stars. The silence so complete it made my ears ring, shadows of an owl in the air, hunting without a sound, and nothing. As it always does when given space, the night painted a whole life in front of me, spun itself around choices and possibilities, reminders and remains. I saw so clearly that which gets muddled in the noise of reality. The answers were always in the desert, you've known it for years.
The illness takes too long to leave your body, yes, but it will leave.
It will leave, and you will remain, and that is the point I'm trying to make, is
you remain
When the sunlight returns
You will be there to turn it
into gold.
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