The Definition of Simple

Flat winds rattle doors and whistle hum outside the window. In fact, about ten or so windows. These Carolina room layouts. Traced along ridge lines just across the river. Bought for the view. Built for it too. The grass crunched like summertime this afternoon. The air only cooled around four o’clock and even then, not much. High of seventy five. What a time to be alive.

There are not enough words to describe the universe.
There aren’t even enough to describe us.

I want to be a writer.
And I am telling you to be wary of words.
Not of any one in particular.
But just feeling like there are already enough.

And that if words fail to describe something, it isn’t in existence.
Which is an irrational and divisive and intentionally manipulative position.

This whole mess is clay, right up until we cook it.

And it will become anything we make. So long as we keep cooking.

It has been raining for just about a billion years. But dirt still behaves as if it never saw it coming. Now that is love. Or at the very least. That’s something. Mud sliding down mountainsides and rocks choking valleys and water swallowing high school gymnasiums.

How has it all not settled down by now?
After all of this time, how is the definition of simple
still changing?

Rain dancing

Land takes its first drink of water in a good long while. Takes bites out of dust caking cars like pale rust across abandoned metal. Spits it out. Against the ground. Gifted back to brimming oceans like they needed it. As if they hadn’t seeded it. In swollen clouds breeding it. And how it came on perfectly too late. Filled it full of epidural and induced legs wide, to weep life through a wound and glimpse light coming too soon and painting hot pink across flaming horizons. We needed this rain. The hour was growing too late. Long past expected due dates. But we asked for it, we did not demand. We prayed, like we do not understand if it is God or Man we pray to. Besides, words don’t inspire worlds to cry. Dancing does. Imagining the rhythmic pattering of tear drops in clear plops bouncing oak paws and poplar claws and burnt maple stars alike. You hear it in your head. You thank it with your legs. You move to the music you want to, whether or not it is true. Besides, seeing you dance that way, like a fool, like you have affliction, is a far more promising method of drawing out musicians.