You will remember that leaping stream
where sweet aromas rose and trembled,
and sometimes a bird, wearing water
and slowness, its winter feathers.
You will remember those gifts from the earth:
indelible scents, gold clay,
weeds in the thicket and crazy roots,
magical thorns like swords.
You'll remember the bouquet you picked,
shadows and silent water,
bouquet like a foam-covered stone.
That time was like never, and like always.
So we go there, where nothing is waiting;
we find everything waiting there.
I find myself in the quiet.
I've been reading poetry. I've been reading prose.
I've been observing. A still being amongst the frenzy.
I've been taking pictures in the snow, then in the rain.... and briefly in the sun. And sometimes my camera can't tell if it is spring or fall or winter.
Snow falls, then melts into green a day later. Hydrangea petals turn brittle, yet moss grows ever more soft and brilliant. The fog sweeps in, then out, followed by the milky brightness of the moon.
Not much to say today.
Just quietly sharing with you, a touch of beauty.