Sometimes I read someone's words, but I hear my voice. I love when the poet shapes it into song and I feel more alive, no maybe justified. And when I look on the canvas I feel as though I peered in the mind of the creator, I feel this calm delight knowing I can slip into my own kind of frame, somewhere seeing the bright images back again in my mind and making my way. Thank you God for this. Or like today, when I wake and hear the rain, I always dig deeper in the sheets and place myself under more layers, listening to see if any of the rhythms of the drops are the same...I pretended I didn't live to any clock. I find it a challenge to choke down my own medicine at times, but I love their eyes, their laughter and light, I'll pray so eagerly and give more of me if that would help. I'd never want the power of invisibility, it hurts to know to much, and words from friends can't always kind or they may not be friends at all. Oh that the season rolled by so quickly. I'm ready for snow and time to cease, living less in the intervals, these contained blocks, and instead just existing and taking in all the moments as I listen to the quiet. One smells like Rose, and one like Lavender, both aged and mine. Both frail, and small. Clever how the rain came quietly as I dreamed of home and ached for its reality. But what do I know of weightlessness, because this home has not been seen by me, only behind closed eyelids and most of it remains a great mystery. So not yet...it's not yet...whisper that to the cave of sheets that swallow me and count...one. two....three....fourfivesix......seven. Lord, I pray I never forget. Lord...onetwothree...four...fivesix....seven...
"BREATH ME'
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