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Silk Satin Pajamas and an Agenda

It's my birthday. I am in bed waiting for my coffee to percolate.

Perhaps I have a new lover, Parisian cologne and bowties, I am smitten. As usual, always, being me, find comfort being wrapped in the solitude of my blankets, remembering back.

I hear the coffee cresting. I'll return.

Sometimes at night, or even now, when I crawl into my bed I am so excited that my legs whip whap up and down, I shimmy shake and cozy in deep.

I could be in love. Or it may have been lust. I fall for the deeply attractive with a genetic code far removed from my own. It has to do with smell. I am getting older and am amazed that people say how good I look. Of course I look good, I am vain. My friends all look good. It's what we do.

I find the more I know someone the less I think of age as a modifier.

Yet, I woke up this morning thinking how grateful I am to be in my own bed, listening to the Canada Geese, silence ringing in my ears. My time is thoroughly my own, which is by design. I suppose, at  points, I give pieces of it away, hand it away like lucky charms.

My skin is more satisfying now to live in than when I was a girl. It feels like home this skin, that's the unshakable truth, that it took me forever to know the make of my being.

I am uncertain of my motives, my attraction to life, to expression, to the evolution of possibility is unquestionable. I hunger for experience, distilled panoramas, stargazing, and shotgun shells.

My love, always and all of it, to you.