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.
Perhaps the storms are simply meant to rouse our inner empowerment,
faraway rumbles culminating into the now, waking from hibernation the reminder of the how,
for fate is passive sitting ducks, and destiny the arms in the winds resurrecting the self up,
believing in the achieving part of dreams, rousing the soul to with that single bird, despite the conditions,
I dance in the rain, and the bird wishes it were me; we chat about exchanging wings and feet but decide each are intentionally meant to propel, and here we are together celebrating freedom from cage and cell.