I so miss my fireflies,
but these will do for now.
Special thanks to Linda G. Hill for posting the above photo at #1linerWeds.
(Top image is from my hand and mind)
Special thanks to Linda G. Hill for posting the above photo at #1linerWeds.
(Top image is from my hand and mind)
If you stay on one side
and I the other
how will I know the color of your eyes
what tune your voice plays when your words lilt into the air?
How will I know if humor is one of your senses
or if the shoes you wear have traveled far?
I want to know what made you grow
and what kept you stagnant
what made you smile
and what made you weep
If you stay on one side
and I the other
how would I ever be
enlightened?
image by Kerfe at https://methodtwomadness.wordpress.com/2018/06/29/waves/
Dive into my center
past the bog of obstacles,
the sharp edges,
the pointed arrows.
Peel this artichoke
layer by layer
leaf by leaf
through tiny thorns.
See past the choke
into the light
of my waiting heart.
To taste the smells of distant shores
contents of wares within wooden crates
heaved on sturdy shoulders
to reach my hand between the wooden slats
and feel the relics
like silk between my fingers
those tastes of memories.
To taste the smells of distant shores
teas and spices peddled by steadfast merchants
exotic oils purified and funneled into blue glass bottles
the dusty threads of ancient Persian carpets
woven by still, sure hands
the taste of skill and craftsmanship
of those who came before.
I want to taste the smells of distant shores
the ports of entries open
for senses to rouse
for eyes to open
in harbors safe
a saving grace
exposure to
the new.
Why?
Why did they leave?
Was time too short to leave footprints in the sand
or did they level the playing field to erase proof of their presence?
Did they call to me before bidding adieu
when my ears remained distant?
Discouraged I’m not.
Beneath the sea
A plethora of life.
And now September burns the careful tree
That builds each year the leaf and bark again
With solemn care and rounded certainty
That nothing lives which seasons do not mend.
…
The young are never robbed of innocence
But given gold of love and memory.
We live in wealth whose bounds exceed our sense,
And when we die are full of memory.
by Donald Hall
Mr. Hall died last Saturday, June 30th. He was 89.