A war. A hunt. Now trees and cars and war analogies and hauls. Here, at least. Legends of treasure, now myths of bonuses. Wait, sorry, that was 30 years ago and also here, at least. You know your birth chart, the results of your birthday on your destiny. You credit your rising Scorpio more than your trauma. You know there is no such thing as destiny. You know because you're not silly, just looking for a map. There is a car, there is gas. There is a star made of gas. Carl Sagan said you are made of star-stuff. You look out the window, try to funnel stardust into poetry. It's hard being on the inside. Try being soft next time. 

You haven't seen a jade bangle on a wrist in decades. Nostalgia is a wave carrying you when your bones feel sun and storm and can't tell which is coming and which is going. Dreams of sibling rivalries and board games, a side of soy milk. Static. A warning sign. An invitation on nice paper.

The morning is soft enough to enter your body. Enough times, and you turn it into art.

Put down the Amazon cart. (In case of emergency.) 

Photosynthesis was invented by a cell freed by the sun. Somewhere along the way, Tinkerbell and after that, a fairy tale becomes folklore becomes tongue. The garden flickers like your grammar.