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.
I am still faithfully following petals as paths with my soul’s whispered directions to where you are at, the one to reciprocate all this love I have, and along the way, I’ve grown to love the way I am.
I am fueled by storms and coastal wind as I raise my arms to each and channel them until empowerment rises boldly from within…
But it is in the still and minute, in the soft scent of beautiful, in the trust of subtle, the barely discernible, that I feel the forgotten soothed, those buried-alive non-truths; the golden elixir single ray finding the torn petal coats in those places I am not able to ever reach on my own.
Up close and personal is the only way I know to heal my heart, to feed my soul, and that, I believe, is the path that leads home.
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.