furrow ovenbird If I scan my body looking for tension I find worry knitting my brow every time, a permanent pinch right between my eyes, concern making tracks in the snow. The lines are becoming permanent–a carving etched into the chalk hills rising around my eyes. I want to erase them, smooth myself into a youth I will never possess again, but despite their peppy promises there is no serum in the world that will give me an untroubled mind. And, anyway, this is where empathy lives, where my eyebrows give way to that wide open field of perception. This is where my fingers press into the pulsing heat of the sixth chakra. This is where gentle lips have felt for fever. And maybe when I dream everything softens, returns to a prelapsarian innocence. Underneath my skull is like a tumbled agate, polished by the shifting sands of my grief, the slow abrasion of my love. 251106 what's it to you? who go blather from