morning stories: one to none to three
On the day of departure, I’ve arrived.
There is nothing more to give away. I’ve shed my scales that made me a chameleon. I’m colorless now, a colorless she. See through though the who that is here is one I cannot see. To be, I have to give. To give is to live.
To give is to live. It’s prescriptive. The colorless me has a sense she’ll see where her own power lives someday. Like a hummingbird’s wings, there is a way to isolate invisibility. There is composition that conducts infinite motion.
There is composition that conducts infinite motion. With no home in the now, there is only the now to know. To grow without bounds with no roots to the ground is to be found, hovering. Hovering is discovering how all that is colorless, too, can be.
All that is colorless, too, can be. Two can try yet by three, we’ll be. The ark has a name and it’s possibility. The turtle without its shell. The porcupine without quills. The zebra without stripes. Vulnerability. All becomes obvious when there is nothing to observe.
There is nothing to observe. Distance deserves proximity. To see is to be still. To serve is to stay. To say that today will favor what it is to savor all that one cannot see.
On the day of arrival, I’ll be.