When I write, I want light. On this evening, with a fricken hooligan incoming and the rain coming in a lash, pushing up ground, pulling down rocks, sliding land, felling trees, lifting tides way beyond their pay grade, I’m here, back from the cafe, having traunched through puddles deep, passing places sink holes and still the rise comes in. It’s a turmoil for sure, but not one of so very many I have known and yelled abuse at for decades. Doesn’t mean I don’t thrill at the danger. I absolutely do. I still had to light a candle as a writing companion. I won’t go to work tomorrow because the road is right now being swiped into the Atlantic (only short term) but my sassy mini is short, her ‘underneaths’ a tad compromised when the flood floods a whole bridge, the surge and push of a strong river longing for the sea and the sea, by the way is the Mother Atlantic. You don’t mess with a gazillions miles of superpower. I wouldn’t.

I think about the half and the whole of anything. My fire is lit, my nose is cold, the time has changed. I conjugates me, all of us. We were one. Then two. Then three, four, five, more, then lost, then one again.

I light a candle. I speak. I am here