Is a place where my feet leave my signature and a blessing with every tip-toe
Where I look up and reach up and stay up. And feel up.
Where my hands conduct a symphony made up of wise leaves and child-like joy.
Where my lungs breathe in the honey that was left by a finished task
and who are in a state of flexibility.
I so long to be free.
But the chains that bind me are neither temporal nor spiritual.
They are just gray. Gray and heart-strung.
Ties that bind. Ties that break.
The ties that break may be here next Thursday night for dinner. Or may be the essay that has been prolonged. Or the shake of the head for those who can't see. Can't hear. Can't taste with me. The ties that bind only hold me in this gray, but melancholy disillusionment.
The ties that bind are in the hands of my family, my dog, the perfume of my trees in my backyard, the pothole at the end of my street to whom I always curse, the world's worst park around the corner, the world's best neighbor across the street. The sun's perfect glow on a diminishing October day.
There are few times when I miss my Fall
in my home
with my family
and my familiarity.