How precious.
A moment of softness.
A tender understanding
of life
and her aching sorrows.
Let me tell you,
this sorrow is painted in rainbows
for the good you bring.
Let me tell you
your shine
is all the light you need
to dull the aching moments
of goodbye.
Life is a story I tell myself.
And I daren’t tell it wrong
for fear of the unhappy ending.
But what is unhappy?
And what is an ending
if a beginning is found
on the other side
of each new end?
Bravery
is born
on the tender tears
of loss and disappointment.
Keep stepping.
You are so loved.
The wind was crisp
and the sun sang warm to my skin.
The rest of the world was too fast
to know bliss like that.
The truth is: the truth is too expensive;
a depth of emotion most are unwilling
to pay.
Humanity can’t see through true eyes.
Can’t see the fighting is a small child’s game.
Who are the adults?
Let me know when you meet them.
Wounded and scared;
don’t you know how deeply you once felt the world?
The carpet is there for a reason.
The broom is used by all until the carpet
spills the truth.
The truth, they say,
will set you free, and I am free
to tell you that.
But, then again,
the carpet is good, too.
Let go.
For peace.
I send my heart
to those in pain.
Let me sit beside you in the dark.
Let me remind you:
darkness is the ship
to a bright new day.
The wind, I think,
is peace.
The breath of the earth.
The song of the trees.
And we will bathe in her softness,
today,
and every day.
The wind, I think,
rolls all days into one.
May she catch us
and show us
the truth in her song.
She floats on the wind
as they stare.
And they will never know her
as their own.
Never see her truth
as anything other
than feathers in the garden.
Yet, she knows herself, dear.
And she knows, darling softness,
that a field of daisies
and daffodils
and dandelions waits for her
somewhere.
Where the soft things come together
at last.
How beautiful to see your tears
and know your soul
has been kissed
by music.
If light though the trees is your wish,
it is my wish, too.
If a meadow awash with eerie shadow
calls you,
I am gone.
Already beyond the boxwoods
and sweet peas
of my garden, home.
Day 24. Somewhere over the rainbow.
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