In waking dreams I see the past
and feel it waltzing me
down a sweet, sweet road.
Oh, darling days gone by.
How lovely to feel you tickle my bones.
How lovely to remember the depths
that sang to my aching soul.
Always, I will remember the nectar
of those darling days.
Never again will their shadow
remain hidden
by choice.
No.
Nothing is more important than peace.
Not to me.
Me who has faced the wicked fire of others.
Me who has held my own heart
and felt it break in my hands.
I have broken,
but I am not broken.
I am ready to find and keep the softness.
I am ready to find and keep the peace.
Here on this hillside,
this sweet patch of earth,
I have become.
And there is no further to go,
there are no wings to grow,
I am there.
I am there.
Sleep tight, darling world.
How lovely and alive you will be tomorrow.
On days where rain settles on the window, I look to the future with dusty eyes.
How does one peer beyond the droplets there? How beautiful can the horizon appear when my eyes are glazed with the muck and haze of old?
There was a time, once —when I was young and stainless— when the window was free from drizzle, the horizon: apricot sun over a sea of gentle destiny.
But lovely as life seemed without a shadow, I have seen rain awash the hill. Where, in this wild world, truth and softness is but a dream to be wished, and love, a precious ornament easily shattered.
Still, I choose to be grateful. To count the rays of beautiful sun and see beyond the ghastly truth on the hill.
I must choose this light.
The alternative is too dark for me to bear.
I saw her when I closed my eyes,
I felt her in the wind.
And I knew I had to tell her
how tired I am,
and how I never imagined
life would be so hard.
I had to tell her
how I am in love
with them, and with life.
But how tired I am, and how I miss her.
Oh, how I miss her,
oh, how I do.
I saw her when I closed my eyes.
I felt her in the wind.
An open heart.
A darling home
for my children,
my love,
and me.
I open my soul again and again.
Has my heart been heard this time?
So quietly it speaks for fear of breaking.
Hear me, please.
I may not carry the right words, always.
But my heart is pure,
my wish is simple.
To love, is all I wish.
To give
and to know
that I have lived in the world well.
Have I lived in the world well?
Have I lived?
I’m in a cupboard, peeking into the light.
If you looked, you’d see my eye,
and I’d see you.
All of you.
Even your well worn Volleys.
Especially those.
White.
(Not so white at all.)
I’d smile, but you’d not know it.
All you’d see is my eye, remember this.
Here, in this cupboard, it is warm.
It is warm,
and I see you.
I always did see you.
Beautiful are the moments
where I remember
you are you,
and I am me.
Perfectly.
Beautiful are the mornings
the sun shines on cobwebby thoughts
and there I see the glimmer of truth.
How beautiful you are.
How beautiful I am.
How beautiful.
To know that different
is not another word for wrong.
brooke-cutler.com 