Grandmother Crane had promised open doors,
Eyes wise and blue.
Yet I could not read the sky,
Clouds too heavy laid thick on my ribs.
Weeds twisting Hydra throughout the spaces.
My lungs squeezed tight until the roaring sound released,
Ice air at my feet on the edge of a precipice.
Following the constellation of my footsteps,
The Lynx calmly talked me down,
Exchanging tiredly turbulent waters
For winding roads of conversation on maroon couches.
I had to open my hands again, he said.
The Full Moon should soon be rising.
A patch of sandy light appeared in the window.
The Lynx opened the door and nodded his head,
Through shaking aspen skies I stepped,
Straight into the eyes of Orion.
The archer’s hand took hold of mine.
Can we go outside and talk?
And so followed the bowman sheathing his arrows.
On the deck of the treehouse,
We leaned over the railing before each other.
Wordlessness thrown into poorly shaped pots,
Branching out and tripping over the twigs.
Sometimes truth is choked out with fire.
Finally the midnight sun rose,
The night growing ever brighter.
“It’s been two Blue Moons since,”
He smelled like wild Redwood.
Surrounded by the nebula,
I found that we fit.