JUG ISLAND

I sketched my vision.

I sketched it.

A year ago, this day and I saw it. I knew it. I knew this

day. In every detail, in every feeling. It’s good. It’s good.

Grounded trees tickling the clouds. It’s wet and dark,

and dry and light. It’s Douglas fir on the hand that holds

my hand. It’s family. Whatever that means. Easy. It can

only be easy, it’s family. Hills to peaks, snow to laughs,

blues to algae and kelp. Weaved, waking, waves waiting.

Waiting a little longer. Long. Enough, maybe. Now. Now.

Leap. Leap. Lava working quietly, blowing hot embraces

to make the islands a foundation of two, three, four,

keep counting the steps. Keep going. Bridges, muddy

and dense, dusty and dispersed. Thirsty tongues trying

to time the tides. Barnacles. Barnacles. Remember? You

smell of home. We are home. We are at home. Have a

memory that is good enough to rise, and sudden

enough to take you places. Places of skin and sweat.

Places of wonder and safety. Places of plans and

pauses. There’s density in branching out through these

roots. The Ocean leaping through our face, one, just one

has become, the sap sprouting spaces of spasms. Of the

heartbeat. You did wonders for my heart.

Poem: Jug Island, Ludovica Mazzucato

Music: Head in the clouds, by Daughter of the moon