It’s the restlessness in the air that gets me. The leaves’ subtle changes. The way the wind nips for a split second as it brushes by.  The blood is skipping in my veins, a hopping crossover step in ruby slippers, down the yellow brick road. Linking arms with heart and brains and courage.

Closer we get to that fateful day the colder it gets and the brighter the sun shines. I can’t help it – as always everywhere is marigolds and pansies.

Restlessness borders on rage and I am frozen without direction.  I need to act. It will all right itself after Sunday. That’s the anniversary of my birthday, a measure of my life, a return to how it was in the early days,  the seconds of transformation from astral to earthly.