January 11th, 2014

I massage my scalp hoping this will encourage my hair to grow faster.
I have no way of knowing if it will, but action is a small addiction
comparatively and one I am trying to foster. The slate sidewalks were
slick with ice this morning and I felt the thrill of losing control as I
stepped over the threshold of the house and into the world. There aren't
very many ways to say this, but one is that when the rain hit me I believed
in you in a way that holds all languages, but cannot be expressed in any.
I am sure this won't hurt for very much longer and when it stops I will wear
a yellow dress and drive across all these states and smile, really smile,
into the eyes of strangers. I will write home letters that don't say much
about what I am doing but everything about what you are, and the dry earth
will part its lips to reveal roots rising even now. And God, even if the fig tree
doesn't gather its leaves and raise them to you, even if it doesn't unwither,
I will not hide beneath the plant, but walk into the city with my hands open.