soft reality, such touch

burning inside as if

fueled by desire

sensuous

always there

and always remembered.

Wet rocks

Fog stitched sky

Mud

…

Even the fucking crickets are pissed.

Overdose of sounds not of need or neccessary

Replaced with simple understanding and movement

and

a soothing breeze filled with wonderful drops of rain.

Welcome old friends

Stay and join the journey

There is much to talk about

Flowers sweet

Changes in the wind

and smiles…

just go away.

It could be the wonderful moment where air and soil meet with such perfection

or

maybe the way the clouds talk so loud it ends up in thunderous applause…

yet,

again,

the childhood memory of see-saw is the answer

knowing, as always,

you can never kill the child inside you…

actually it is impossible to try

…

and there it is again, a butterfly sipping from golden cup wearing a wreath of copper and silver embossed with a child’s dream.

Closing the eyes and seeing what comes to mind

Ears open, body sore; feeling so much, much, much

More though with less, less with nothing

gaining traction with the flight plan

nonsensical  it may seem, even disjointed and strange

which is why it becomes so very real.

Sixty seconds to the minute, each a pause of until

Until the minutes come

and then , go

they still  continue to

continue

continue…

Another pause:

or two

or three

Realizing minutes do not exist because they do not count

as such then to live now,

not yesterday or tomorrow,

not even today.