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.
The pull of the day, of the years, of everyone’s needs leaves shadows and cavities from ebb’s never-ending taking, but the sun’s reflection warms me in oranges, and the glow stays. The light one way or another will illuminate, independent of ever reaching that haunted, hollowed space.
Moments drip drop, first molecules floating to fall, and when the basin is filled, our time is up.
Let me taste each one individually upon my upturned mouth.
May I spend the least amount in flood or drought, paned, sheltered or drowned.
Let me feel it all though; to offer an umbrella or call me inside is to deny me each elixir dose to my soul’s life.
Moments shared with others, even fleeting in passing, make up the ocean of emotion that fills and propels me most deeply.
When the last sun sets, I know I cannot take any drops with even though they became a part of my very composition, but heaven is in the clouds for a reason, and I believe from these drops within, another birthing will begin…
shifting sands grains unable to be grasped slipping through fingers sieve of my existence footprints vanishing in vain trying to leave an imprint, fingerprints fossilizing
as I watch sea drops dry on shells shells of mankind displayed non-selves on shelves
shifting painted shapes offer to take me away only to lead to the next drifting cumulous cloud lateral when I need to be higher homeward bound
shifting sands I open my hand spread my fingers wider I know what the answers are not to feel the silk is to feel nothing caught but sensory strokes the void in the curve of my palm no trail found to my entrance into the sea
saltwater can’t sting when the wounds are too far beneath the body’s surface
arms open I invite the above in home- sick let me know I am not