the thing glitters.

violence and glee.

there is nothing more enchanting.

Gleam of blue against dust. Pick up? she asks eagerly. Her strawberry dress is streaked with dirt, it ripples in the clean air.

Five white spots on its back, painted with childlike imperfection. Crooked leg, cracked shell, useless stinger resting on warm, mottled skin. Tight shimmer of green and that unsettling shade of blue. The thing glitters in the dappled sun. It seems too electric for the natural world, too reminiscent of body glitter and sparkly shoes and neon lights. I hold its body in the cup of my palm, nestle it in pillowy folds, the way I'd hold hope, or an apology, or holy water.

She gestures with delight at its mean black eyes, peering over to look. Sleeping. Lays a rock on top of the tiny carcass and says, home.

I carry the leggy thing back the way we came. She wants to hold it, then doesn’t. Like a cat plays with a mouse, she drops it enough times that the wing eventually comes all the way off. She giggles sharply: Wake up!

Right before the bridge, another shout of blue. Different shade, same violence.

It's not cracked enough to see the damage. The delicate membrane is still stretched over the part that broke. I realize I am too afraid to look.

---

recently:

1. Please read this gorgeous poem:

   A Blessing

   by James Wright

   Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

   Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

   And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

   Darken with kindness.

   They have come gladly out of the willows

   To welcome my friend and me.

   We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

   Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

   They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness   

   That we have come.

   They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

   There is no loneliness like theirs.   

   At home once more,

   They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.   

   I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

   For she has walked over to me   

   And nuzzled my left hand.   

   She is black and white,

   Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

   And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

   That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.

   Suddenly I realize

   That if I stepped out of my body I would break

   Into blossom.

2. Been enjoying Jake Xerxes Fussell lately:

3. This made me well up. Expressing the shimmery bits and the bigness of motherhood is challenging and I think Hollie does it beautifully with this poem. Someone aptly commented: It’s as if the joy is a dirty secret, not to be spoken in polite conversation. That’s ok, because it’s still mine to remember.

4. Trying my hand at brewing kombucha, first batch in the works, stay tuned, send tips!

5. Wrote this while sitting on my patio with my daughter crumpled in a heap on my lap. She arrived home from the playground, was overjoyed to see me, nursed and immediately conked out. Contact naps like these are so few and far between these days and I cherish them so much, especially when they happen outside featuring warm gray weather and birdsong.