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.
Tag: Whimsy
Categories
Flowers
The flowers opened with the rooster’s crow and closed as the sun went down. Everyone called them weeds, and that’s what they were if you were someone other than me.
Whatever their name, they woke and fell asleep with the sun, like us, and that was just so beautiful to me.
I’ve lived in several houses where this sort of ‘weed’ rose upon the front lawn like a problem to be dealt with, and though the grass was neater upon their official doom…it was never quite the same. Never as alive. Never as lovely, such is the vibrance of dynamic life.
And so it was that I loved that lawn much more when the weeds were alive.
Because Shakespeare was right.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
I just watched Lord of the rings, again;
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Twirling leaves, swaying, falling.
Flowing gowns, floating on air.
Softness.
Romance.
Light and trees.
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Oh well.
There’s always next time.
Categories
Sweet Aching Quiet
Sweet aching quiet.
Soft night, curled up beside me.
I know you.
I know your fragile whispers, well.
It would be okay,
I believe,
If you were to make a wish
and put it in your pocket.
It would be okay,
especially so,
if the wish was sweet.
For a wish made carefully
is often much sweeter
if forgotten
(in a pocket)
and found
somewhere along the drifting line
of life.
Somewhere lovely,
of course.
Somewhere really quite lovely,
I would think.
Categories
How Lovely
How lovely.
The wind of peace.
Here.
Now.
My
how lovely.
Good morning, sun.
And river.
Flowers and trees.
Happy day to you, wind,
and the bird song you sweep over mountains.
(Good morning, birds, and mountains, too.)
I will let you be, this day of life.
I will let you all be as you will,
and I will call you
lovely.
Categories
The Lonely Soul
The lonely soul
is a beauty.
She is quiet,
so quiet
as she whispers her way
through the noise,
through the dark,
through the rain.
Sing a sweet song to her.
Call to her
and she shall hand you
a soft and thoughtful dream.
Hold my heart, dear music.
Let me float in the clouds,
on the sweetest of tunes;
let me hold this feeling, still,
while the moon wraps around me.
Sing it again, sweet Angel.
Evermore is the breath
of this beautiful, beautiful song.
It is a beautiful thing
to know love.
To feel it
burning,
aching,
glowing;
how I have known love
is as small as an hour born
of its grand, magnificent day.
I have loved in many ways.
Is there a garden I am yet to find?
A moment still to spring
upon the delicate plough of yesterday?
I am certain there is more to come.
I shall wait for it by the gate
where the red roses wither
and the daffodils wake
in sweet tufts
of two.
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