Later, soon, tomorrow… always risky putting off what the heart longs to sing, to say… our lights, eternal, but earthtime measured in sand and dust and strings Atropos cuts, footprints tide-washed away. So let’s stop and sit awhile, my friend. How have you been? Kettle whistles, Columbian grounds, deep sofa, phones down. Let’s wrap ourselves in the comfort of the softest colors of love, quilting our story.
Beside them the birds of the heavens dwell; they sing among the branches.
Emerging from tepals, I simply listen to the birds’ morning songs before the wakening and bustle of the world in which we both belong, before the sun itself beats its rays down; thank you, Lord, for the gradual transitions and living Psalms.
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
I spend time and thread reaching out for places to land, and sometimes I do, but then I feel the wind signaling again that the respite is but transitory, and I am not even the spider but a phoenix whose wings have singed over centuries beyond this dimension as I eternally morph evanescently, reaching out for a home for me.