To dream the color of the sun seeping up through sidewalk cracks, the black, buckled earth giving birth to light. To let your skin be painted 12 shades of red, long slick bloody strands. To watch your hands weave slender stalks of wheat into welcome mats for gods.
Allow the angels to enter, never mind their disheveled hair. Catch rain in Styrofoam cups and drink it. Say a prayer for the helpless things the water bugs, the tadpoles, the naked baby birds, yourself.
Remember that part in your hair was carved there by God’s razor blade just this morning.
Know you are never too old to live.
Know you are never to young to die.
Burlesque Press 