AM Seattle

By Matthew Corsi

The sun speaks in melodies to me this morning. The dew in the field acts like a mirror dancing like a miraculous miracle. I wake early to get a hint of what beautiful things await the day. How yesterday is held together by fabrics of scar tissue, but today with new eyes, I can fossilize new images and implant them directly onto my heart. I can sing with the birds and whisper to them secrets that get carried away against the whistling wind. Water has the intensity of a thousand thundering mustangs, the banks sit on the sidelines, eyes wide open, as if watching a stampede sent forth by the horn of Gabriel. Anxiety ridden, the flowers in the fields rise like hungover mammals, on the edge of collapse. The bees may not be thirsty for their toxin ridden nectar. Mt. Rainier appears to be wearing a white trench coat, I see the feet and head, but the body is utterly hidden as snow covers the core of its’ existence. I am that type of high where my finger tips are sensitive, as the pinky and thumb meet, an explosion of euphoria is released and captured within the morrow of my bones. Us poetic types have it rough, rough as a feather falling slowly, we experiencing the world through every angle imaginable.