Home

I walk through the green, a million leaves gleam in the evening sun. No headphones today, no passers-by to avoid. In this forest of silence, I am an intruder.

It has been too long in my home, that land of rectangles. My room, a shelter behind a wooden rectangle where marble rectangles lead me to glowing rectangles, large and small, that wait to see me mint paper rectangles again.

Here, under this sun, in this golden solitude, there are no right angles. Lines turn and ease, there is no rush. Pure freedom, without intention; pure beauty, without desire. My lips curve unbidden, joining for a moment those bees and comets, these flowers and planets, in their joyous, cosmic conspiracy. Raising my palm, I stare into the lines that arc to tell my story.

I am not an intruder, I am home.