Waxing

As the moon wanes, I am gearing up. The days, of late, have been full with subtle delight. After Noon, Sun gives and I soak it in. Evenings bring chance showers to freshen and moisten air and soil. I have been thinking volumes, writing comparitively little; reading less.
Finding inspiration in static image, more so than first hand experience, life unfolds. Its latest blooms, fragrant though they are, lack the vibrance of memories past. It is, perhaps, only that my mind has learned the magic of RGB and thus adjusts the curves of recollection as it sees fit; saturated representations of days that were, in first person, overcast at best.
Alas, I burble. Poets are subject to going on. I fear nonsense may be a drug to which no flower, sour mash or painted lady can hold so much as match or taper. Weeks pass. I delve into each, investigating with relish every crevice and fold. Fleeting though they may be, each is its own; as is every day.
Tuesdays have about them a particular essence; one of elegance, marked with a certain hesitation. I first took notice at fourteen, as I tread my earliest steps upon this poets' road. A life viewed through the prism of one's chosen art is a life transformed. The mundane takes new shape. Love is glorious; the smallest things, enormous.
Through written word, I have learned both to turn myself inside out and to take the outside in. Though no less is the Mystery than at its Beginning, Language is a teacher; knowing not all but enough, witholding what it must. Much is there to be diciphered of our own origins. Each word holds its key to original thought and intention, offering its passage beyond the bounds of time and matter.
Wendesday is. Vanilla resonates. Lack is desire is not. Control is illusion is comfort. Bed is sleep. I go.