An Incubation

These hot days steam by. They desiccate. Grass is pale, brittle, like old parchment. Everything without shade is crotchety, dust, fetid, or sheltering in water. I have been all of these, and the last three days each a long shift with bare respite. And my ears become stoppered with infection. This hot world becomes silent. 

Bees move flower to flower, birds turn, open beaks, there are leaves twitching, soundless.

Did this air on skin always feel like a tumble of morning petals?

Um, yes. And the smell of the warming earth under dew, yes, that has ever been my treasure. 

But having a sense impaired, also yes, the focus on what is left is re-treasured; the sense of moment blooms, re-blooms. 

Meditative appreciation, under-grumbled with intermittent pain. 

As some people get tattooed for decorative reasons but some require each etch to bear meaning - I am in need of learning from every ailment. (I try to just be ill sometimes, not much success.)

The outside world is silent.

In my head a muffled heartbeat, a thrum of blood tide, a viscous blurring. Clear bubbles in the ear lava open, buzz and caw and trees-in-a-breeze noises appear, are swallowed up again. I am left in womb-ish muffles, wondering.