A high in long talking after absence, in trusting a mind not only to intend but to carry out kindness. A mind in kind, in playful games of chance with words, with mine. Meandering, meaning as the way in.

Twisted tree on the way like a vine, arms coiled around its own self to find what gravity is. Gravity scarcely holds, and shoots take flight. Leaves scarcely clothe it. Sit to trace the winding, wings of the wood unwinding, sanguine, stretching, with eyes half-closed.

Welcome stretch of arms upraised, the little crease at the shoulder between clavicle and laughter.

Day made short by looking at what matters. Filled with absence, lighter.