It’s Not Often

In the canoe, in my heart, the dark of her curls blend with the gold of sunrise.

With water glassy we paddle, unison’s time, rhythm’s endearing.

Over her shoulder she smiles. Hope leaps. Love pains at future’s parting.

It’s not often colors blend such as these.

Mercurial silver of water. Hazel of eye. Red of lips.

It’s not often to welcome falling into depths like those below …

… when she must leave.

 

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Mornings

Mornings are variety

With sun edging over horizons, red then orange then yellow bursts through white or gray or nothing at all,

Only blue.

Mornings can happen over oceans, bays, sounds, lakes, river, streams,

And even creeks.

They can happen over emerald fields of wheat, over shadowed desert sands, over forest and valley and mountain.

Mornings are minted daily,

New with fresh, breezy breaths or sultry, humid doldrums or with glistening dew on blades of grass.

Enjoy mornings. Revel in them. Allow their touch and tease and laugh to slip inside with each warm and golden sunbeam.

For mornings are these things and so much more.

Surely you have mornings of your own.

Be a morning.

I Certainly Hope So.

We must live within them from time to time. Clouded mist and gray skies. But then emerges blue-sky dreams filled with hope. Hope tugs our hearts and souls on ghost threads tangible as steel and delicate as ether. Strong as any weapon while fragile as love’s fading kiss. How strong are your hopes? And how weak? And do you hope at all? I certainly hope so.

And so should you.

In Fiery Splendor

sunset over the Albemarle sound

As the budding rose is to the rising sun

drawing forth in fiery splendor

so are we

As the smile of a child is to the parent’s heart

bringing forth love in all its mysterious ways

so are we

As the gull is to wave tops

endlessly seeking above crests foamy and golden at sunrise

so are we

As the oak leaf is to emerald grandeur

awaiting the final downward drift with gust and gale

so are we

As we each seek our path, yearning above all else to

lock hope away in our hearts

instead

set it free

Allow hope to bloom, to laugh, to soar

and

at the end

you will pass forth with joy and thanksgiving

filled to everlasting

All The While Settling Onto Beauty

A flickering fluttering triangle of wing and body

Colors blurring, wind carrying aloft

During the seeking

Her goal, her sole existence is to feed for growing

To lay eggs for living

To continue the cycle endlessly

Of newness

Caterpillar

Chrysalis

Oh, what life to live

Flying on current’s edge

Constantly in hazard’s way

All the while settling onto

Beauty

Of leaf and petal

Of scent and color

Kissed with dewdrops left by

The Morning.

 

But Who Fears.

I saw him staring into the face of someone he never knew

or had no interest in knowing. With his hard eyes he taunted

threatened, and with the tight line of his lips he refused communication.

The facts were there, but he chose to look

away.

The truth was within him, but he would not hear.

The small, still voice begged to be heard

the face of honesty and honor wished to be seen

but fear of what is within blinds those assuming they see all.

Is it already too late? Does hate reign?

Does choosing to separate and divide, looking the other way rather than at one’s self

doom  all?

But who fears … but who fears.

Intent

We never knew

or saw.

He’d been here

smiling, laughing

acting as if he were one of us.

Imaginations failed.

Faith in humanity tripped the wire to our

demise.

How could he?

How could another on this wonderful place and planet

which we call home

have such

Intent?

Intent has no finite definition. It

takes many forms.

And is what we must be vigilant against.

For when

Intent such as his lies in the minds of others,

no matter

who,

Intent is the worst weapon

imaginable.

More so than any

Thing

ever conceived.

 

I Might Imagine

I might imagine, or I might not, that love is a smile beneath a small straight nose, deep brown eyes, and dark chocolate tresses falling around my face as she sits above me.

I might imagine, or I might not, that over her head, green leaves laugh in the summer breeze, and lake waves lap whispers against round stones.

I might imagine, or I might not, a soft kiss, moist and tender, warm upon my lips, and the brush of fingertips at my brow, with words of welcome.

I might imagine, or I might not, a mountain trail, rough with stones for tripping, slow with time for talking, waterfalls crisp with splashing, and the summit for rest.

I might imagine, or I might not, two sets of footprints pressed into wet sand, hands clasped, sun overhead, and at night, stars.

But I shall not imagine, for I could imagine more that would not be imagining, for I am thankful, grateful more than I can say, reaching for her hand over twenty years hence from dreaming, and still we laugh, sigh, love.

And we imagine.