Maybe outside a fresh scent is drifting in the air. As it wafts through rooms of the house, across empty platters it comes to rest in a bouquet of flowers. Once there, it speaks to us. It says, the bright shower of good things is ever descending. It is all a giving. Enjoy it now. Let the crumbs fall (aren’t there birds enough to pick them up?)
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Perhaps only after taking a glance backward is it possible to pause for breath as I start speaking from afar, until the speaking takes me far, for what has been uttered is never the end but follows along the edge of a mourning dove’s wing striving not only upward but sideways, through and beyond the distance that drives her intentions so easily apart.
Maybe as my words are nothing more than stiff elbows protruding from the smallest softest chamber of my heart, even as so many excuses to not write them flutter their wings, a single sentence becomes the very compass that gives direction to my quest as I drift to the surface of this sandy trail so easily dissolved into broken thoughts and the hills around my house open out onto pencil sketches of early daffodils brightening the careful call of a lonely dove that slows the warming of this cold morning down.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Perhaps there is another world, but it is in this one, where something silently waits for dawn and hides in the heart of a shining tide in a place where horses still harvest the sun. Before roads came like traces, it patiently breathed in clouds and leaned its dreamy spine against the thick sunset to bring back to us something like home.
Maybe as we wait by the shore this silent unspeaking watcher brings all into sand with salty hands that turn our souls into seagulls. Away beyond where there is nothing left to guess, each earlier wave born echoes the whispering more weaving hundreds and hundreds of rings of sunlight together before taking them apart.