Last night’s dreams linger in my coffee, sweet and bitter, black against white styrofoam cup. Sometimes these moments go transparent, tracing-paper on the window, and I remember time as womb and we are waiting still. There’s always more that could be done and it’s hard to tell where the importance is – pour yourself out and out and wonder as you fall whether you could have given more (or maybe less). Or stand on the edge and open your arms to the wind, gasp in an instant from breathlessness to full lungs and lean into it, wonder if you should tip a little further forward or stay. I’ve strung these same thoughts like paper cranes before, and the strings come back and back to tangle through my fingers. Maybe someday I’ll be done with this circle but for now it swings around and around, old tire spinning from oak tree under hot August sky while cicadas sing. Should I be present here, in this moment, as I tip out the last dregs of coffee? I am too aware of time like honey flowing swift-slow, too keenly tuned to a thousand-thousand layers of this life enmeshing together, dreaming, dreaming.

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