This Little Thing Was Broken

This little thing was blown
against the wind,
its petals gone,
is now a stem of someone's thought.

This little book,
its pages fluttering,
stands in the rain.
It is now a spirit, recaptured in someone's mind.

This season of spring
stands bewildered in the moment of going.
It is a draft of wind,
breaking in sharp through the crack in the wall.

This spirit once lay scattered on the sea.
Someone came and gathered in his arms
the petals, the pages, the wind and the rain that tossed it so.
The spirit awakened, in God's embrace, saw the rationale.
The scattered spirit is whole again




























This little thing was blown
against the wind,
its petals gone,
is now a stem of someone's thought.

This little book,
its pages fluttering,
stands in the rain.
It is now a spirit, recaptured in someone's mind.

This season of spring
stands bewildered in the moment of going.
It is a draft of wind,
breaking in sharp through the crack in the wall.

This spirit once lay scattered on the sea.
Someone came and gathered in his arms
the petals, the pages, the wind and the rain that tossed it so.
The spirit awakened,
and in God's embrace, saw the rationale.
The scattered spirit is whole again

Fresh like the dew of the early sun,
floating on the wings of the cloud...
an elusive contact between heaven and earth...
In that moment you walked past Love
like the slow, rippling aura of a fragrant dawn.

Something held you back;
you swayed back and forth
And a  vagrant thing, drifting in the wind on the bank of the river,
saw your silhouette in the gray, unresponsive sky.
Your breath, heavy with the scent of the night rose,
lingered on the river and rippled past
 the weeds and the reeds of grass.

All the beautiful things of this life
touch briefly under this arch,
and we in our vagrancy,
catch the shadow and fix it on our walls.


Image received via Janos Szabo
originally shared by AI R

A Place To Dream

On a bright summer day
when the afternoon time hits you hard in the face
an arboreal dream swallows the day.
Amazing this earth and
amazing its multiple hands .
This ancient tree has thousands of aeons marked on its bark
and like pages of a carbon print
I wanted to feel it,
flick through its pages,
write my name with a knife
on one of the random finds.
But the greatest wonder came
when one day someone had overtaken me and already taken possession of the tree.
It seemed the tree and the man knew what it was to survive centuries
 aeons after aeons with a single thread of love

running between them and calling,

to keep their tryst with time.
The  man had lain his head
trustfully in the lap of the tree.
He was dreaming the life of tree.

 Image courtesy +Hector Merced

A place to dream

The Little Fish

The mighty waterfall
of  absurdity,
and I am invaded all around.
Besieged in the vortex,
in the abyss of the gorge,
I am struggling to catch in my swirling net
a little fish twinkling
like a silver coin.
As it slips from the net
I struggle to catch it in my palms,
hoping that one day this little one may grow big,
and keep on growing endlessly.
One day it might grow a horn
and break this expanding sphere of nothingness;
tear the veil and on its mighty wing
force the world which I cannot see;
force it into the open,
into the field of my eye;
this little fish,twinkling and winking in my hands.