None of us are well. And it stems from this stark reality of our dispositions. Our denial. We have two facts surrounding us from all sides – decay and death. Yet, we cannot muster the courage to stare it down. We decline to rub up against the dazzling of the day, the brilliance of what’s …
It doesn’t lament the work it took to deliver. A hawk just brings a mouse. A writer writes. A painter paints. A poet poems. Kids get raised. They may do similar things and raise more. The flowers are designed to bring more flowers. There’s no end to it, and there’s no sense in getting in …
What could be changed in a moment to create a radically different person at a later date? What turn now could lead to destination unknown? Silly questions. Every change. Every turn. Every difference. All moments lead to the same thing. The same thing is what’s birthing all moments in reverse. It comes, it goes. Where …
Four child hawks and one mother. The mouse feeds them and my dog finds the tiny bones below. Treats for one looking in low places. A watch delivered for simple timing. Every second counts. Memento mori. Frames to box in the past and show symbols of possibility. Voltaire was so yesterday. Enlightenment tapping on the …
Remembering the dead and measuring time in the stiffness of blueberries. He that is always love, like Rumi’s little stories, blooms again with a gardener called J. Blue berry. Blue bird.
