I love the way mist hovers in the rims of the hills Long after it has seemingly disappeared From its origins in the deep valleys. It dangles freely there, no agenda to fulfill. Just waiting for Sun to hit it and change its being Into something completely new. ~ by Stan Stewart Copyright © 2011, […]
When we were courting, I gave you flowers: Cut flowers. Prepared by a florist. Occasionally, I’d break out by going and Picking wildflowers for you. Now, giving you flowers seems redundant. You grow the most beautiful garden. You are the most lovely bloom. What need would you have of another flower? ~ by Stan Stewart
Fragile: She set her heart-shaped teacup On the table. There was no way She could have known that the Bump would come seconds later That would send it crashing and Smashing to the floor. Vivacious: Heath was on the move. He loved his mommy, but mostly Just wanted to get from place to Place, loving
Today’s “free stuff” to-do list: really taste the coffee smile at somebody I don’t know be gentle with myself hug a friend laugh at my own humanness smile at my beloved sit down to pet the dog really taste my life and be gentle with whatever I notice be sure to give someone a goodnight
Shyly, he lifts the flowers out of the pouch And finds that they have been crushed by Their travels and travails. Still, they are his gift to her and so he Fluffs them up the best he can and fans Them out and holds them Lovingly before her. She knows of his boyhood wound: the
Love. Pain. The way the woman next to me on the subway smells. The way the dead leaf wafts from the tree long after its death. Joy. Frustration. The vibrant sounds of drumming from an exuberant boy. The tiny interruptions to your one, long thought. Spent. Gained. The mild fatigue at the end of a
There’s a late, Spring snow falling outside. People are dealing with nuclear fallout In Japan. It seems strange how the events of The world and on my back deck Both affect me. The impact of each is profoundly Different. For I still know that it is Spring even with the snow falling. I celebrate the
Listening to the drip, drip, drip Of a day of thaw Is a great reminder: I want to miss neither The individual drop Nor the deluge. Both have their own Beautiful part in the Flood. Each is complete In itself. Both are beautiful. I easily become Transfixed on The drop. It holds so much Mystery
One thing counts: It may be love, It may be compassion, It may be delight, Or it may be beauty, But one thing counts. I awake to the chill of Morning and know that This is not a day to be Wasted or even Taken for granted. For to make even one Thing count, I
(give the heartspace) Given its opening And closing, This heart is less A witness to The outside world And more a testament To its own inner Habits and occasional Hermitages. Not too priestly though Is its reckoning. It is more of an Artist: Full of itself at times And crushed by Its own weightiness At
