The double chamber, the grit, the granular source and collective pit of one's corporeal time accelerating each instant through that check valve of now/then, . . . that drop zone below the present tense.
Today, a convention within these mountains, a cloud 'n vapor parade displaying every pantheon that history and the Jungian collective ever imagined, morphing before my eyes, now the Cherokee chief, that once owned these peaks, reigning over the D-land mouse.
It's an elevator ride. You decide whether it's down or up. The car slows and halts to fill or empty. You ride, you ride, you ride knowing that only the suicidal select a stop.
Forsythia, here blazing out, in, is it tractor, center stripe, or school bus yellow? A distant cousin to the olive tree. Would that a rioting branch, when offered, would never fail to restore tranquility and peace.
Your scent lingers, the shape of your body lingers upon the linen where we bed. Wrinkles in time will smooth the sheets but I believe we have created a lasting perturbation within the continuum of time 'n space.