Manuscript, Miracles, & the Mundane

Sunrise mimosas toast the new day, spilling orange juice and champagne down cactus-barbed ridges in the Sonoran Desert. The early edition’s printed with shadows of sycamore trees on sheets of a cracked concrete porch. Dawn’s detergent; my Calgon get-away before relinquishing myself to the small, fine print hidden in the asterisks of adulthood: redundancy that makes me loose track of time and its brevity.

*sigh*

There’s nothing new under the sun! I have nothing “new” to write!

Wait!

Maybe this?

Somewhere between swim lessons and back-to-school shopping, I sync with nature when cicadas ring dinner bells, grace sets the table and eventide restores me, being baptized in its rutilance.

I dry the dishes with a kitchen towel inscribed, “Happiness Is”, while Evening draws a coral bath and steeps hibiscus tea to pour through the shutters into our family room.

*sigh*

I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to write outside my comfort zone!?!? No rhyming!?!?

Last try...

Silence speaks in iron oxide; the angels of the four winds having laid their feathered quills at the feet of the Author of Heaven whose hands bend bronzed clouds to skywrite bedtime stories in cursive and calligraphy.

Dusk’s residue lingers after Day’s dissolution when God’s fingerprints leave blind spots on the optics of my view.

Happiness is..... writing!

I count the days ’til classes resume and sunsets succumb to fall while wondering, if eternity still writes in cursive, shouldn’t they be teaching it in school?