The ghost of last spring is calling to you, persistent and soft like a kite line on a windy day. You didn’t plant the seeds but something did, a tornado turned into a butterfly.

You are suspended in a pool somewhere past the deep end. There must be a cathedral underneath; you can tell from the stars above, their colourless light shifting in ways that pluck worry from your body until you are full of life and quiet. Violets are bluer than the water until it gets dark.

Roots invisible beneath the soil in a forest full of escape artists and fingerpainters. A spaceship once took some men to the moon. There was already a woman there, she didn’t think to plant a flag, there is no such thing as a country when you fly out far enough. There is no such thing as anything when you fly out far enough. Maybe better stories.

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.