While the earth is sister to the sky

I'd forgotten to put pepper on the omelette.

The mind is a convoluted sheet of canvass, with no room for pepper, or for love. Joan Didion once said: Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write.

And so, I tap away, scrape against the surfaces of things, bringing back twigs and ashes, sentence fragments, footsteps, evenings, memories of rain, a dream of clouds, echoes, a flower. When the edges of days threaten to break, when the fringes from where I stand start to tear, the fumbling starts-- that quiet flutter for solidness, that rouse to consciousness, that jump back to the ground.

So while I was scraping the pan for left-over flakes, I remembered the pepper I'd forgotten to put on the omelette, and made a mental note to write it down.