The warmth spilling onto my left tight, back, arm. My freshly henna-made hair still a bit damp give an amazing strong and herbaceous smell that melts in the warm air from the heater. Laying on my bed and writing, thinking, dreaming, my belly, naked against warm sheets. Light captured inside, the brownish wicker now spilling onto the wall and painting a cocoon for me. I am in my personal heaven. Lost in time. A beauty. And the sound of the heater.
I remember what I used to think and feel. I remember what I used to remember. The rich colors of the thick wool runner from New Mexico. Running horses at night with a flicker in their eyes. Naïve beautiful art- what for three dimensions if the world is held in a symbol? A woman in a blue dress comfortably stretched by a river bank, red rock on a horizon. A night landscape. And she lays there, smiling, her back warmed by a giant wolf. The animals in the ground, curled up on the sand or in the trees. We sleep and dream. Next to one another. There is peace and warmth
– Like her smile
– Like his fur
– Like their hole in the ground
Like water in that stream, moving on in spite all, in this world that is held in a symbol.