This morning

Driving to work this morning felt like moving from life into art. As if the road itself grew smeared with the weight of it's own oil paint... and the clouds hanging low over the water and glancing coyly up to the mountains above them were the breath of water colors and imagination. Just for a moment she wakes up- this great something- to sigh gently with kindness and reminds me that it is no crime to have faith in something... even when I have yet to begin to imagine what that something is. The sky so long absent from the reality of this winter stretches her legs and yawns as if she has not been hiding maliciously these months, but merely napping through the lesser part of a harsh wet winter. And I, like all indulgent women, remind myself only in retrospect that I am not being punished as I want to believe, this is no martyrdom, it is simply life on a scale much grander than my own. My frustrations lies in my inability to raise my own awareness to the level of that sleepy monster, that coy compassion, which is the sky, the mountains, the glaciers, and the water. The art I drove into this morning when I momentarily forgot the importance of my life.