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Each wakening comes with that moment we rise
As the imaginings of sleep fade with each breath of morning sun,
the liturgy of our daily sabbath begins
and our soul celebrates.
There is no imagination even
to find the journey
with lovers, dance and sacrament.
Evening shadows of vessels block the shore, the portals.
No tides, no swell. No circles of sun and moon.
Just flatland -well calculated, illustrated, dramatized and over spoken.
The daily grind , the inland
of forgotten life and being.
Image with gratitude via “Capturing The Imagination” WordPress.com
Empty places are not alone.
They are not so quiet either-
taunting and haunting thoughts
in exploding fragments full of grace
taking nothing really into the soul
and finding there a divine space.
Looking out with weathered views I find there is much seen from places away from where I stand
The other window, past the trees where the wind blows from the north is something else
if I close my eyes and listen closely – I shiver and know.
I am blind though to the color of the eastern view from my western space
Looking out with simple delight– only with framed views I fear.
Photography via Julieallyn wordpress.com
His poverty of love betrayed every effort
and he settled for survival-
afraid even of comfort
a man alone in a mind framed by fear.
His death came as could be expected-
outside, nature fallen.
Along his years-
he was loved without knowing how to love,
embraced not knowing how to hold,
home not knowing how to father.
Yet in this moment, in this breath
he is today beloved.
photography courtesy of Sarah Vaughn
A year of days learning framed love circling hate
disease stuck and captured
with thoughts small and great.
Weeds purple miles traveled on mondays commute
pressed edges of asphalt
by wild flowered fruit.
Yet not many linger so driven so straight
bound to mark souls
captured and saved.
I wake now to birth from life to my life
from breath to a death
grace sun-kissed in now.
Cicadas fading hum meets the cool morning breeze
with a call and response litany among the usual flight of birds
except geese in formation against the wind directly pointed
while the lutheran’s sanctioned bell begs their ordered migration.
It is Sunday.
It is the day the trees dance in 1st position to know Sabbath’s touch.
photography via Stephenltyler.