Take the time now, they said, walk freely, they said, towards the light where virtue belongs.
Neatly, I said.
I was wrong to be serious. I was a nudge in the face with an innocent smirk. I kept the stove lit, wondering, how, for what, when birds soar to such an infectious state of generosity, tumbling to a dissipating state where anchors ridge drudgingly down towards clouds neat like cards.
Now, I think the words are written long before the moon can insist on epic heroism.
Then, I did not presume a future so kind.
Just keep the tired troughs ticking, I thought. Word the methods and hold fast to the necessaries.
An avalanche of merriment, I trembled beneath my feet, flying among clouds of the tritest trope.
I remember galloping onward into the night, holding a lasso and thinking, oh my gosh, I can fly.
I was right. I really can fly.
