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
It’s been sunny and seventies, and the seasons have not so much been confused as they have been seemingly just leisurely mingling, amused, some stalling, some joyfully letting go; nothing in the South rushes though.
Like melting cubes of ice in tea, we take it sweet and slow down here. It tickles me pink to have the mix sprinkling personal messages so clear.
Today started differently, gray with a bit of nip in the air. Certain trees partaking in autumn are almost now bare, covering the patio in a bland blanket over stone, which made the flowers I did not grow even more the focal point of my windowed soul.
I smiled for how they have become so deeply rooted in my journey. Marking my heart’s pages, so many petals and leaves held so dearly, imprinting with their colors and scents my most powerful untold stories.
Fissures shift, the inner lifts, though I wish to keep it enclosed. Exposed to the elements becomes my soul. The tears rise and flow.
When the painquake subsides, there are less toxins inside. I suppose it is nature’s way of eliminating the accumulating waste, that which we bury in false deaths, that which we hide beneath the surface, a sort of protection and procrastination of that which we cannot bear in the moment to face.
Two-faced are we all. How are you? Good, thanks. Why do we ask that question in passing? Too often fake. How am I? Probably actually similar to how you are especially in the way that we guard the answer. Brief eye contact. Continue walking. If only we acknowledged anything. Hands on phones, hands of clocks. Bombs inside. Tick. Tock.
Fissures by nature are meant to be breaks. Down is mine. Again. No brakes.
Not a fall but an opening. An involuntary wound-seeping. Weeping.
My inner, risen now. What will you do with what’s come out?
May I never lose my way to getting lost, may I never resist the urge to leave it all, may I never shelter my face from the storm, may I never let my arms fall in the downpour, may I never fully wash off the grit of the sand, and may I never be restrained by clock or human hand.
May I never negotiate with my soul: may I never let anyone close the window.
Sometimes the heavens seem to shout without a sound, send in golden tsunamis to knock us out of our sacrilegious head-bows, hunched over the false light, oblivious to whom is beside let alone above. Another tidal wave of wonder crashes against an overpopulated shore unheard and unseen despite its colossal reminder that we were not meant to be islands caught up in the streams on screens of mind-numbing nonsense when the caged spirits within continue their deafening pleases turned to pleas and silent screams to be released. Our souls see heaven’s reach, but our eyes and minds are locked in self-imposed escapism stagnancy. And another stair to heaven disappears, as the case little by little, shrinks.
We all fall. Sometimes. It’s inevitable. Natural. Stumbles and knockouts along the way. Bumps and potholes, from obstacles and pitfalls, All paved roads, manmade.
No wonder we get lost. We make through-streets when we are meant to meander on foot, following brooks and the day-star beacon through the trees.
I believe it lights a different direction for each.
Newton’s laws are really a Universe thing, term ego-coined by humanity, but even that which has no momentum to soar, has never been granted the boost or breeze, seems to fall with a harder thud from crawling.
Perhaps the greatest and most needed fall is the one to our knees, when we give it all up and let Him take the lead.
Perhaps in that moment we are granted our wings.
But in that excitement, will we remember to fall silent and still enough to feel our soul’s gravitational pull?
We can now go anywhere the heart leads. This time I will stay away from the paved and listen to the whispers of the wildflowers and leaves.
I feel your heart out there gravitating toward me.