just another sunday

the dog is curled in the great beast of its poof. the tulips are arching ever so toward the light, opening, opening their fiery petals into the wide, about to drop stance of done. the whale we found in the driftwood sculpture, half burned from an abandoned campfire stands pointing the way to the waves. she is next to me, writing, writing. we are writers now, writing, writing. words fall out of fingertips in a silent roar of what roars up and out from the heart. is that where the writing lives? there, in the heart? i imagine the heart with it's door, opening, and the words spilling forth in long sentences that travel out in both directions down the long arms that carry each plucked letter into words. i imagine the flow that keeps on flowing and the eyes that keep on reading and that silent sound of my own voice mouthing, through a still mouth, speaking, through a mind alone, the silent words as i utter them to the screen.  the fingers pull them into being and i speak them in the silence of my own mind where they no longer live once they have found themselves here in this virtuality. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, for the virtual of the reality these days. virtuality. i am here. it is sunday. my mind turns to picking up the girl child who will come here to live out the interim. and i will ferry her to and from san francisco. and she will explore the exploratorium and visit haight ashbury and wander, for her time, in golden gate park and i can think of nothing more spectacular than taking her to and from these places over these next few days and hearing the spill of her stories about the memories she's made and will make in these places and the joy of getting to be that kind of mom again. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. that kind of mom. i look to the piles of things that will shift back into order.  the pool of pennies poured out of the change vase hastily as i had to make my way to the bus. the pairs of shoes, accumulating under the coffee table in some kind of puppy pile of waiting to be taken to the dark part of the top shelf in the closet down the hall.  the papers--of opened mail and bank folders and possibilities of actions yet to take just waiting, as they do, for the toss or keep filing that will eventually come--though the stack may have to grow before the balance of inertia is upset into action. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. it is a normal sunday morning, with nothing much to do but wait for the petals to fall from tehir place in the vase.  the waves are still waving.  the wind still pushing the air around in a sweet kind of early morning breeze.  life is still living in these still lives of ours.  life.  on just another sunday. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.