i opened the carefully pleated rectangle of foil to reveal the ooze of red and cherries and flattened crust. i ate it with no ceremony standing at the counter, scraping the foil with my fork to get the last smear of ooze. it was leftover heaven on a warm and windy late fall day; a day more suited to october than the cusp of december.
everything means something to me and the meaning is more than likely tinged with the ethereal. i think of this late warmth, a gift for the northern dweller, and equate it with the opportunity to do just a little bit more before the hibernation begins. and the more for me takes the form of noticing instincts and natural urges, of seeing the old doorways and not-empty bell towers of dreams i've been too timid to embrace. those dreams are demanding attention in this 56 degree wind, begging to be blown open and set in firm soil like necessary seeds of spring.
full of leftover pie and rusted keys in my hand, i step into the wind and search for the door, ethereal bells ringing with each gust. these old dreams are of home and all that it means and of never yet finding my way there.
but i want to be there and set my other dreams down there and feel what it is, live deep what it is to be unshakably and forever at home.