When I became an eclipse

As the bog held me hostage I was beckoned to follow the lifting mist out of my binding dreams.  Reluctant to meet this day, I yawned then stretched and put one foot out of the cover while at very nearly the same time, I thought about pulling it back in.  Before I could change my mind, I rose from the bed, turned on the computer in the kitchen and made myself some coffee.

The sky out my window, a typical Napa Valley morning of marine layer and canyon fog, suggested the kind of warmth the more coastal dwelling folks won't be blessed with, the kind that sweetens and plumps the grapes.  I was hoping for a more magenta or scarlet splashing in the act of rising, like the beating of our life source within us, but only brushstrokes of blushed and bruised pomegranite could be seen.  Not even the birds paused, as they usually do, to shed hope in the promise of this new day, no; for they had not yet wakened, that or their hope was diluted, evident only by their apparent lack of interest.

The one thing unchanged by this bleak beginning which is the whistling of the tea kettle is also my anchor of normalcy.  I poured myself a cup of Folgers, mmm, perfect cup every time, and sat down to type the lack of imagery within this morning that I so grudgingly woke for.  Then in a whisper, my breath grew slower, yes; slower and more deep.  It has happened before, kind of like the ahhhh the flowers have at most every sunrise, except for the rising on this day.  Have you ever noticed that phenomena?  I continued to type the almost dreary words when I felt the golden warmth wash over me.  Why it was so bright I couldn't even look at it from behind me, but my back seemed to straighten without pain under its commanding caress.  Instead I looked straight ahead to my otherwise white and toffee colored walls which had turned a regal  gold separated only by the most perfect silhouette of myself. 

Ah, dammit.  Once again, I feel the coldness and over my shoulder is that impish fog attempting to steal what does not belong to it.  Even the sun doesn't seem strong enough for this day.  For a moment, the birds did wake, then hushed and once again their lack of song is much like the silent triumph of the binding mist wrapping itself over the land; but for a brief splashing of kindled morning grace,  Ieclipsed the sun.