Lemon Ginger
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Friends who know simple medicine, those
who meet you at the library with enchanted
knowledge to see your enchanted lack thereof.
Who can advise with the physics important to
your imaginary architecture. Those with sky
blue ears who boil water for tea, who ask
what kind, as if it matters, who recommend adding ginger,
because it will help your labored breathing. Who tell you
how sunlight purples the glass over time, how gravity isn't
completely understood yet. Who says you’re doing all right, and
here is how you can cross the river without drowning. Who act as
warped mirrors; the only mirrors you can honestly find
yourself in. Joking about death in the late evenings, who know its
seriousness enough to be able to. Who bring out the
absurd creatures of their subconscious into your bedroom,
unashamed, little paws that scurry across your lap and get lost
inside your furniture. Who fashion a playground out of the discarded
ammunition and debris of this world. Who have been made beautiful
by the right amount of solitude. Who sing in the kitchen,
pour your tea, and wait for you to catch your breath.
And what you do for them - you take photographs of
their hands, drink your tea, and explain your
idea for an endless river-like aquarium.
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