The Dry
Tumbled down amongst the base of the hill lay I wiggling still. I had no idea it would be that far of a fall in that short of a time. There is nothing but the dry dirt to caress my head. The lion's tail weeds don't fondle my fall as much as they tickle and tease my face. There is nothing but the wind to take all moisture from flapless sails.
I tried to pick up a penny once. It was heavier than the finger's ability. I had no idea why. It was as if I were high. It was as if I didn't want the copper toy to begin with. I wrinkled my nose and turned back to the sky. They were falling from heaven and I ran for cover.
I am a simpleton of inept ability. When home feels like a hotel and your life feels as if it is on rails leading to some place you don't want to go, well then you have a problem. You have a blessing really. You now have an excuse. I'm sorry I'm not what was intended. I can only apologize and then spit at God and watch it land back down on my face with a surprisingly dry thud. I have no more patience. I have no more patience. I have none at all.
I can climb still. I can feel wetness when I want. I prefer it to find me and search out my face as if it knew what I wanted. I'd prefer it, but I would end up shunning it's generosity in place of my complacency. I would tell it to "Fuck right the fuck off! I didn't ask for you to come and quench. I asked for nothing." And as it left I would sulk in knowing that it was exactly what I needed.
Pennies are funny. Lion's tail weeds have a windy beauty about them when they sway in unison. They sway to the idea of God. Somehow, God's ideas are in those weeds where the pennies have fallen and I still lay with covered head and all the wetness I'll ever need.
