And Oh, California, I had all of these plans for us.

For you to be sunny skied with sparkling blue water that reminds me of what’s sacred, ocean

crashing alongside cliffs in long slow, swells swirling with a feminine hope, but there’s

wet strands of brown seaweed unexpected on the surface, both stuck and with a sway

yellow wildflowers in rugged grasses that interrupt a silence that needs no speaking. Their own makeshift willingness to gather for pollination rising up from a tangled, rooted stem.

Air hanging with a future of auspicious mystery, like salt smells breathed deep into the chest that remind the questioning parts of you that safety is a silent granting,

and that the destiny of love is recognizable, in a way that brings me closer to you. Here.

This was supposed to be the trip out West where our Pacific Oceans collided.

Willingness, and surrender into the fire both a trust and a prayer, with both getting out and staying forming an infinity like the longing for your hand to rest in mine

Refuge and happiness, then, would lay on my chest, sound of the surf carry me deeper into my and then our intimate home. Our own ancestry reimagined.

I hear the Blue black bird cawing between the pine trees, smell of smoky fire matching the moisture of mist in the air.