The rain cuts cross angles against rounded edges of fog and here is the place I am most meticulous in my wakened being. I watch myself from red tiled rooftops; the manner in which I pat my face and note the glow of rose; how I pick placidly across the wells that settle like a secret between quaint cobblestone- here puddles become pleasures. Curled in the corner of the kitchen I observe the careful method I use with the morning bread, how it flakes and gives itself, like a selfless lover, to a spoon of jam.
With soft hands I carry the parcel of my day, losing count at 320 stairs I round the top of this ancient city and nod with humility to each matted dog that so proudly owns this corner, that square. There is always one at the top who watches, he is gruff and were it not for the cracker offering I may not have passed in good favor.
I tie notes together neatly and hang them from my wrist, or place them on the rug: the pungence of that papaya, a rounded bolsa of chia seeds, the gentleness of the painter with suenos in yellow, and the last drops of water in a drying vase. In the morning with the fireworks I simply roll like dough to the far side of the bed, I count sprigs of lavender and patiently recall my dreams.
Wrapped up in the height of this place I breathe deeply to gaurd myself from thin air and hold my elbows to round the severe angles of our hills. With a golden cloak I still shimmer when the power goes out.
All this to say, it is from within the hills of Cusco where I have learned, time and again, to care for myself.
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