April 17th, 2014 (Fifth period free write. Written after Maureen Seaton's Etta's Elegy)

And let us start by saying words we barely know and then taking them apart, syllable by syllable, letter by letter, and reducing the flesh to the dehydrated skins of animals and then stitching these together to make a new meaning from what is undone. We are the brave ones. We are the ones writing on a Thursday morning in the sun while a lawn mower roars its song to a sky full of blue. So walk into a world you know only some words for; walk into it bravely wearing what you have made of the deconstructed words of your life. Everything you have been is just below the surface, moving slowly like a huge sea creature below the still water. But also, everything you will become is here too, blossoming and blooming and erupting as underwater volcanoes. When all the words are in pieces like the shattered porcelain on the floor of the kitchen when you threw the plate but didn't know why, don't bother to collect the shards. It is right to break things. Even hearts. But, don't ignore the mess either. This happened. This is always happening. Everything you are is happening and never un. We are the brave ones. We gather, languageless and strong, sunned to darkness and teeth bleached with smiles, around the first fires of civilization and we look with eyes full of what will be into a sky we need no words to hold. These are the days that matter most of all. Be brave. Be strong.