Writing practice. Sky. Five minutes.

Sky, I reach for you up and down. You burn me from New Zealand to Hawaii. Where to go? How to follow that star that calls to me and gives refreshing water? What gifts to bring the Babe of Bethlehem? Born in blood to shed blood. Lots of guts, and I am here, fully here, breathing, shallow, curved back, wanting nothing more than to curl into a ball in a deep hole in the earth, for I have nothing but my gems, my crystal fingers, and doughnuts. Anne Rice wanted doughnuts! A true New Orleander. What do you call people from New Orleans? And that pastry that Tiana bakes in The Princess and the Frog? Sky, lead me out of here into New Orleans, so I can walk its dangerous and mysterious streets, paranoid of voodoo and tourist traps, to touch a myrtle or chestnut, kiss it, wrap my arms around it. That, my True North Star, point me to the South. Australia, New Zealand, India. The Ganges and your holiness. Lead me South and I shall stalk you like a cat, climb up a pole, launch into mid-space. Ride a broom to the moon and back and say, that yes, for once, not in this form, but in feline, I was finally able to reach you.