the moon, above dawn-burned trees : my breath contributing to the frost : hard broken beats of hot blood against cold bones : white cosmos with their lithe serpentine stems rising amongst the rigid lavender : a moment of slow, of gentle, of waiting to see what would happen : roses like scripture : the long reach of the light, touching her face, touching his hands, holding the trees so softly for a moment that felt like a moment in an old, unworded marriage : vines, fallen petals, traffic, children : peace in a small street behind it all : peace in my eyes
I haven't been writing here as often as I'd like. There are all kinds of excuses but I don't need to give any, do I? No obligations here. Just a love of writing and a sense of the encroaching silence in blogland and a wish to fight it for as long as I can because I love writing and captions on instagram are not enough. There is a feeling of richness here, even in readers' silent perusal - a feeling of my words being taken for real words, not just captions, you know? In all the jumble of life there will always come a moment like an autumn morning when I remember what my heart never forgets - that words are my first love, words for poems, words for skies, words for stories; I don't know why. It's just how the universe resonates in me. And so I'm sorry for not writing here more often. Sorry to myself.