Waxing Morning
Saturday, August 15, 2026
Pretend I am the moon. Pretend I am the waxing crescent.
How fine am I now? Am I still backstage, waiting to be fine?
What do I wear because I am?
Are you liquid? Do I move you?
Do you bleed to please me?
I rise with a story or idea, a song or character raging in my brain. Or it intrudes during zazen. Or wind flings it against my window like rain. It does not belong in the WIP so I put it here.