How my soul asks to be held.
How she breathes
the cotton thoughts of yesterday
through the trees
as she remembers.
Categories
She Remembers
Tag: Memory
It smells like a roast
but it feels like a story
of love,
of a garden,
and of home.
Categories
A Silver Breath
I have craved your whispering goodness.
I have known your shadows deep.
And here we sing
to a tender memory
of scattered and tumbling
diamond dust.
A silver breath
of life
incomplete.
Categories
This Sack Of Potatoes
It’s a beautiful memory.
Six-year-old me. Bundled in a blanket. Mum hoisting me into the air, swinging round and about and back again.
‘This sack of potatoes is SO HEAVY!’, she jollied, as she wobbled me up the porch steps and into Nan and Pops arms for the evening. She was a young, single woman. I suppose she must have been going out on the town.
That moment. It was thirty-one years ago, but actually— in my heart and in my mind, it’s now. I see it—and feel it— clearly. Dreams live on the same street as memories: sleeping dreams, and dreams for a brighter day. Books and the characters to whom they introduce us: they live in the magical, beautiful blackness, too.
Now.
That’s where they live, I think.
Home.
And bloggy friends? One day, I will call us (and this bloggy land of ours) a beautiful, beautiful memory.
But in the twinkling dust of eternity—we will always be now.
And we will always be able to find each other at home.
My goodness.
To me, that is just one of the loveliest, lovely things.
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