Are you not my heron, my mist, my morning tea?

Find: The Fourth Letter

My dristi, my rhythm, my whispered koan,

I write this on parchment blessed by a mischievous guru, standing in a bell tower in the Himalayas. The planet drops away on every side. Joy unfurls in my belly, a wild vertigo. Beneath the wind, I hear the drone of monks chanting the oneness of the universe. The world is alive and you are you and time flows again, bearing me to my rightful place.

I have released everything I once owned. Tomorrow I will descend the mountains, descend as far as I must, until I find you.

Are you ready for me? Have you forgotten me? It doesn’t matter. Am I not your priestess, your cup, your steady bliss? Surely you feel my breath in your ear, my thighs on your hips. Already I taste your name on my tongue. The bitter reality of you. Are you not my heron, my mist, my morning tea?

A golden eagle is rising towards me on a draft; she will carry this missive on to you. I feel your rightness in my veins, and it makes me strong.

The Fifth Letter »