I know what to believe in.
I found joy in the park, against the crescent of a shadow beamed by the sun. It lifted gently across the grass blades and sat smugly on my shoulders. Summer - dandelions riffing between currents of green hypnosis and I was alive. I was the boy in the tank top, leaping with the wind, strewing sand’s shells with the milk of the sky. And paint draped lands into the sketches Time left. I let it shake a little; let it tremble in its living space.
(I am telling you that all things shiver in the wind. It is the only way we can tell they are alive. And in the rain, they are dressed in something spectacular - made of the silver of the stars [imagine if all the rain are the wishes of the stars]. Wet with their growing fingers, twitching and dew-speckled, they appeal for second sight.)
Born in the red earth, my Father grasped me at my ankles and pulled my face to lean into its noise. “Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum.”
Some things are too beautiful to describe. I know what to believe in.