That means I'm going through drawers, books, closets, looking in vases, noticing more clearly and carefully what is here. I'm on a treasure hunt as I see all the places I might have hidden the cards and yet when I look in, or up, or down, then, no, they aren't there, but I am seeing my home differently. It is filled with wonderfully tiny places where something or someone might fancy to live. There is space, invitation.
This hunt led me to a wonderful book by Carol Bly, My Lord Bag of Rice. I recommend it. I don't think I appreciated it when I read it when I was younger. Now, I do.
In her poem, "Our Bodies Break Light", Traci Brimhall writes: "we are prisms breaking light into color".
I've touched on this, but never grasped it so clearly. Of course.
You can read the poem here, and at the end, read it again, divided into segments, tastes. Read it both ways.
I know the cards are here, if I can slow enough to separate them out. My home is a poem, gently breaking waves, vibration to lace.