Ask me. I dare you.
[But I forgot… ]
I soak color from the walls, brushing it into pictures, twisting it into wool afghans.
All these against leather sofas on wood floors.
Charged with sunlight from unveiled windows.
Smells of home cooked food linger over an old sad body draped in beautiful clothing.
I walk every day, unless I dance wildly to whole-hearted red-blooded music.
Long tub baths go best with sweet-smelling oil.
Meaningful conversations with loved ones emanate laughter, tears and hugs.
A house full of children, music, and dance… where all join in.
[can you hear it?]
And the first one to get there…
Painting by George Ficklin
worried for whom I should be
content with whom I became
Check out this beautiful little gem here: Solace.
Let go your two-fisted man-handle; the grasping.
Waken complacent stumps; set aside your famine.
Take straight view of what remains ahead:
When things work for one; they work for none.
Please take hold of my hand. Once young,
and now being old, I will tell you stories.
Choice tales make simple children wise;
and shape better princes from mere men.
We’ll gather threads, and twine them
Walk the road; lean in, take hold together.
Frequent falling, fear, and callous cold,
on shared path, fade forgotten behind us.
Taste one sweet handful of quietness;
Its richness dangles just within our reach
Rouse stumbling feet; waken fumbling fingers;
Let go all blustering, noisy, empty wind.