morosis
“It’s hard to walk in the dress; it’s not easy
I’m swinging over like a heavy-loaded fruit tree.”
Nocturnal Pursuit.
Joss sticks in my bag smell of earth and jasmine. Gold dust stained my green shirt and my thoughts go to blueberries. Striking how colours mix.
My habit is to let the wand burn to the very last of the wick. Ganesha holds the stick upright and the ashes fall in a ring around the elephant god. One palm faces forward, the other faces upward. It’s a symbol of eternity; some people go to heaven and the rest of us are stuck here. Idle time and asphalt. The merry-go-round has so few seats. The songs are always the same.
I sweep the debris with a wet cloth from the mantle. I purse my lips and blow the cinders to the white floor. The broom paints strips of red that match the marble table where I write. I move the mess around until the very last and use the damp to wipe it up. In this method, I learn how to navigate the wind. My breath baits disaster and chaos ensues. Ganesha’s trident glows from the third eye and each prong stands out to tell me a story.
Live light. Spread light. Laugh light.
I sweep dust as a means to connect to the levity I feel in the hours in-between states. Decompression via laundry and soap. The green glass is ribbed with gold and I pour pink wine to watch the tones blur. I am grateful to see the sonnets appear in envelops smeared by a child’s lips and thumb.
Her method is so heterogeneous to mine, I watch like the cat waiting for cream. She slips little sheafs of paper beneath Ganesha’s mount to catch the tears. A container for dread. Something to empty over the rubbish bin with the flick of a wrist.
Flies take longer to move.
Photo source.
