Not arguing exactly but disagreeing from time to time. Plush like a green velvet sofa: small to the eye but into which sinking deeply is possible if I don’t put my arms out wide to catch myself. Because when birds sing, my chest is a peony opening whether I’m standing in a Dollar store parking lot or perched on a pew, the stained glass shine aching into my eyes. Because the birds know the difference, but they sing anyway. And goddamn I wanted to be a bird like that. Story like a fable, a myth tied up in ivy - all that foliage cloaking the possibility of robbers and marauders, thick trees obscuring the princess as she fled the castle while the stars burned in the sky. No, that’s not right. She never had a castle. What she had was a tall, thin house that shook on windy nights. Those honeysuckle vines framing her view. The way a drop on the tongue felt like a gift even then, before she opened her mouth to swallow handfuls of dirt - sharp penny crunching sweet mothwing sword of grass tooth grit the tang of yellow and all five greens from the Crayola box of 64. Remember how the Buckeye trees towered, not to menace but (I’ve only just realized this) to throw open their arms to say, I’ve got you. Someday you’ll be okay. Day 18/100 #honeysuckle #imakeartoutofanything #the100dayproject (at Albuquerque, New Mexico) https://www.instagram.com/p/CqDXmtxO8nh/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=