She shuffles the cards and spreads them. I pick the sea bird, a card of transformation. She tells me, get in the water; let it wash away everything you do not need. I tell her I am a water sign, when I step into water I dissolve.
Sometimes I am only eyes, I watch spirits rise from the earth, read signs in rocks, count the rings of the tree stumps. I chart the movements of the frog-birds and swans that fly in couples to the sea. I steal lupins from faeries, and some from the trolls; the lupins droop and dry into husks next to my bed.
I wake every hour on the hour to a sky grazed with color I can no longer remember. The hands of children keep me rooted, but sometimes we sleep on the bedrock and I blow away and take them with me, floating into the sky.
The woodpile grows; the wood becomes a house. I am amazed by the way the world incessantly speaks to me, sees me, when I am only air.
On Midsummer it rains while the sun is shining. I leave my body by the bean field and walk the rainbow bridge. I wake next to a grumbling giant, in a room overlooking a red castle. We eat a licorice breakfast. My dress is broken, but I will mend it.
I catch glimpses of myself in the sea washed up, becoming a spirit, an image, an idea, the back of the head of a little girl.
I sleep with a thin pink bag of exposed film clutched to my stomach, cradled to my womb, pushing the images into myself, and pushing myself into them.