Time to return to the things that matter. To wake up bumble-headed and still trialing the wild ponies of dreams, pour tea, and write. To show up, because this is what I want to do with my life. Even when showing up means having a staring contest with the page, while the birds sing jubulently outside; and dawn spreads across the gravel and the new buds and the eaves. I'm determined, because I have to be, because this is what I've chosen. Some days I come away with nothing. Other days, a few sentences, like a pocket full of sea glass shards. Or poems, that tumble from nowhere before I'm even awake.
Two versions of Worship:
I kneel down at the arbor of another day kissing the small pebbles of wonder that press into my knees, the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet I gather the petals that have drifted earthwards from the quivering globes of roses, and press them to my heart
my heart is like a music box; many pronged tin cylinder, twirling making steady, frail music rise joining the windstorm of my soul where the notes are torn and the song becomes wild and tumultuous and I feel very small.