She fled her body, to where the poets fly.
Her heart lived in that place,
an angel by night light.
There were feathers on the wind of day,
and music, like a lovers kiss, drifting.
Oh, how she loved, there.
Oh, how she loved.
And how she missed that beautiful whisper
when down to earth
she fell.
The dancing girl, her sister, her brother, her father and I will be home tomorrow. As usual I’m experiencing mixed feelings about the end of our lovely little holiday, but for the most part I’m wishing the trip would never end.
It is truly lovely to forget the world. To live in a reality that skims over the top of the real world. In this reality there are no responsibilities and no worries. Nowhere to go, no deadlines to meet, not really.The museum wouldn’t have missed us. The beach front wouldn’t have missed our morning stroll.
I will miss this ocean and yet it is the very act of missing it that is needed in order to guide me through life on a more aligned path. The loving, the missing: they are clues as to my greatest loves. They whisper softly, ‘Brooke, it is here you are most at home. Among the trees where there is water, where there is peace. Where there is peace.
Ah, yes. I’m glad for the leaving as much as I am for the staying.
The magical river of life has flowed me this way.
On the sixth day of Christmas, I craved a feeling.
A specific feeling, really.
I craved a couch. And a book. And me.
All of us rolled up together,
where nothing and no one could find us.
It’s not like I wanted to escape the day
or the responsibilities that lay before me.
I just wanted to read.
I wanted to remember the warmth—
snuggling on the couch with a book
and a lovely new imaginary friend (or two.)
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
There’s nothing quite like that feeling.
The touch of a book, the smell.
The firecrackers that tickle the skin,
melting me—word by delectable word.
Thank goodness there’s tonight.
I think I’ll read, tonight.
brooke-cutler.com 