lay open to the morning feeling
it and content, benevolently joyful, to feel
it. The warmth upon her skin. The slight dampness
at the back of her neck in the center under
fine new hair where it lifted from the pillows.
The softness of the sheet, its weightlessness, yet
possessed of substance sufficient to emanate
scents clustered with meaning and memories as
they drifted unhurried above them. The quiet
room, a cube of old ivory with 3 cracks upon the ceiling 1might
call scars from the last earthquake yet Cleo preferred to
think of them as gratuitous art and offering and, too, a little bit of
scrying formed into the loose-jointed shape
of a crane. The wood of the sills and doors
was old and worn, with the grain and grooves
of an earlier age, painted over in places,
smelling like time, countless summer afternoons and
raining autumn mornings, odors freed to weave
the memories of others before her face, freed,
called forth, by the sun.
sun touched the sill so early in the day Cleo's
heart leaped up and she felt a girl.
girl she had been and still was somehow
had jumped to her knees, tugging at the folds of pleated
gown and hugging her pillow to her had watched
the sun rise higher, felt its rays and power and sweetness gift to all,
sensed the stirrings it engendered, coursing winds,
rising trees and grasses, moving herds, the
clouds chorused and went away, the moisture
in the air went away, the
would happen today.
day was like that. In