SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

Profile - Archive�- RSS
Guestbook - Email - Diaryland

Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Monday, Oct. 20, 2003 @ 3:32 pm
The Loft



It is my five-by-six forest retreat. It has become my home, a place of rest, warmth, and thinking. Each morning I look to my left and there is the forest all evergreen and orange, shrouded in BC morning mist. There is my clothes line that, when full of damp shirts and towels, reminds me of building forts with the cushions from the couch. My computer fills one corner now, thankfully blocking my view out that window of the trash heap. (Resumes and cover letters spill forth). Up and down the ladder, work, break, work, sleep. It's dark and I burn candles. Michelle sleeps beneath me, always restless.

It's all been figured out, what I will do about the friend-turned-lover: nothing. I am on this Island; he is on the Mainland. I sent him postcards from Europe, I ran my hands across his back while he was sleeping. He knows how I feel. If I'm worth anything to him he will find me, call me, reach to me.

But for now this is my place. I am needed beyond belief, the seals need me, and I am falling in love with more than one. I have a bite taken from my left shoulder (Lute), my forearm (Lyre), a bruise on my right shoulder from pushing the syringes while tube feeding. These are my wounds. What heals them is when Tuba sucks my boot, when Cymbal reaches up to smell my tangled grown-out bangs, when Banjo dives down and I watch his fluid sillhouette twist around in the depths of pool three. I named Tympani and Trombone and they are beautiful, all speckled brown and whiskered.

Hallowe'en? Perhaps I'll head to that party. He'll be drunk.


Roots | Shoots