Ta Dah....POET PAINTINGS

The ritual is a provocation; an endurance; an unfairness that is necessary. It is only with the remembrance of time that we achieve any value. Deliberately spending these moments like a supplicant, we can begin our day.

It wasn't as if they'd not had this conversation before... "You must love me but you must read my mind and know exactly how I require your love."

This morning the birds were deafening. I was suddenly at the beach and in a forest and in a field of ripening grain- all of the places the birds and I have been together before. Time has no clock today and I can remember all of "us" at once.

An unturned page demanded her attention... The crying stopped before he opened the door...

The lingering smell of baking in the clean and empty kitchen...

The dog waiting patiently for her unconsummated return...

A special kind of quiet in the long shadows of late afternoon...

Come to the ocean and wait with me. That horizon, so sturdy and defined, will, with patience, melt away. There is that moment; that time; when surface and light conspire to to erase our understanding of the world and we notice, again, there are no edges between us.

Speaking with her was like standing at the river's edge. The only things that mattered were right in front of you, now, and you never knew what might be coming next or how quickly the last, most important thing, would float out of sight and out of mind.

I am back here with you now and there is nothing in the universe that can change that and the power of our love will move the clouds and the stars and shape the minds of poets for the foreseeable future.

"We are not lost if we are on the path", she murmured...

The destination is clearly not a place, but a way to a place that does not, actually, require that we arrive.

She always kept candles at the ready- there must be a thousand of them sitting patiently on shelves.

They were appropriate for every occasion: candles for births, candles for celebration, candles for days of exhaustion and days of boundless enthusiasm.

One day, after the rest the house had fallen silent, she told me the brightest candles were the ones ignited by grief.

Tell me a story tonight (a gift from your heart) about the miracles that you see every day. Tell me about the conspiracy that has brought us together in this place and time, to be whole and made honest in our gratitudes.

"The sky does not belong to you", the birds seem intent on telling me. The willingness to possess is such a desperation, a hollowness that cannot be filled from without. Better to let go, learn to fly, and join the birds.

We picked the fruit together, in the late afternoon, when the sun had warmed everything to the temperature of gentle lips. There is so much perfection in autumn days and in the threat of winter...

Her contentment was her's and her's alone. I felt guilty accidentally witnessing that smile- uncrafted for any deliberate purpose. It was not the smile to diffuse a situation. It was not the smile of encouragement or even of resignation to events requiring a woman's endurance. It was a private thing of quiet internal completion, as perfect and silent as an egg.

Terra Cottage Studios

Terra Cottage Studios

Ta Dah....POET PAINTINGS

Terra Cottage Studios

Ta Dah....POET PAINTINGS

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