le ballon rouge

Antarctica

“When I get back to the city, everything’s cluttered and pretty.  I won’t regret my return, I’ll just remember the wind and the snow and the howling so loud that it alone, drowns out the insides of me.”

Moving yet again.  A zip line back to the places I want to be, home inside my heart.  A cosmic dust of wish and lust twisps into tales of true love and a fuller bust.  A magic adventure where sheets become forts and clouds are unicorns or wizards and Winter of our Discontent becomes the summer of our truest truth.  Magnetically forced into a place and a time in a space with a climb and here we are to grow in love and in utero. 

Early to bed and early to rise makes a (wo)man healthy and wealthy and wise.  So it says above the kitchen table.  And coffee stains (he swears) make the most artistic natural markings, over a letter from the field.  Over a game of dice we drip coffee on my journal to determine the truth of his findings before the moment unfolded together we camped at last! 

Half a world of city lights and wayward nights mixed with a dark star sky lone red balloons fly and migrate south for the winter, where, ooh, so cold, yet pop pop pop summer comes and alas, we found the truth.  The Truth.  The truth, yet be told but known in our hearts of hearts; bird by bird the truth unfolds.