glass baubles, walls so thin its seems they would melt at a touch glittery as neon or stars that light the nights path from sinner to saint its all wrapped in tissue of conjecture and parable passed down from mother to daughter gaudy decorations hanging from an evergreen bough
warm days. feeling of late September or those strange days in March when winter struggles against spring but its December. a week from the new year and I walk the garden with the certainty that I have left whatever was behind, and time is on holiday ever green, ever more
cold rain graying the day sluicing garden path slate and mossed green mists hang heavy in delicate bamboo limbs hiding light in pale jade leaves bowing in deep regard to winters return streaked dark bare limbs tarnished with rain silver and gleam
Look for my mark when you are passing this way a symbol you will notice but others will ignore, dismissing as nothing but wear and tear or spotty paint, faded into odd markings but you will know, this is the way I'll be waiting at the end of the road
listen the wrens are warbling their watery tune sending notes clear as prayer into the blue heaven what more do you want from a Tuesday near Solstice rise up and sing
in this season of bare trees and sepia toned landscape when the world has gone mad I can not help but find beauty in these last days each sun rise, a gift uncommon joy found in the light falling on walls of faded pear and aquamarine the bone structure of time etched across the garden the grace of winter in its quiet reflection the freedom of loosing all constraints and ties to whatever went before until I am left boundless, evergreen
finding peace hard won, oft searched for in hiding places and country roads once found its heft is light but all encompassing I resist calls to anything other than this calm closing the open gate salting threshold and anointing the lintel smudging the perimeter to hold the light
I'm all out of caring what the world has to say its discontent, malcontent, pervasive anger has churned enough muck and silt from the rivers bottom that most folks can no longer see clear water how lovely the leaves are as they float downstream and the heron, how still
thecourseofourseasons 