Yellow Sweater

I dip my feet in the water. It’s cold. So cold that after a few moments I feel nothing but my small penetration into the deep abyss of nothingness: the divot my toes have made in its perfect mystery. I hold your hand. It is warm.

“I don't understand. I am a curmudgeonly frog. I don't want to understand. Say it again and I will ignore you.”
“Do - you - eat - flies?”  
“I eat.” 

I slip myself into a pair of stiff jeans. It’s the beginning of the day. I am stiff as well; too stiff for stiff clothes. The air smells like morning, flowery layers blown about in wind. The air is full of elastic brightness.

The fish opened its mouth and swallowed the sea. Its eyes went wide. It didn’t know water could be so heavy. Contained in the fish’s stomach, the sea writhed. It had no room to dance, yet still it thrashed, pushed and pulled by the moon.

Golden light fills the space, the whole space. It comes from everywhere. It defies movement. It has no direction. It is seamless. It is sad and tired and burning. It is filled to the brim with joy.
 

I rode a green bike through spring. I could feel the flowers rush past me. Their pink scent sparkling in the golden light of late afternoon. I gripped the handles tightly, the calluses on my hands hurting with effort.