You come sweet little bird, greet
Us this morning, good tidings, a spirit
To light our souls, to see
The essence in every moment
Days when flowers bloom
Or nights when glasses are broken
When strength rises from suffering
When hope remains during uncertainties.
The clouds flee
the dew hides
the sun reigns
Not a scratch in the sky
Like a voiceless bird
Will you offer praise?
Wait, there is a haziness,
A thin false disguise
A fire burns in a forest somewhere
Walking to the river is my quotidian proclimation
A morning with flashes of sharp breeze and exaggerated cloud formations
A fugitive or a caged bird
Life, a quilt floating in time, fertile and vulnerable
Always lacking in certainty
Piecing parcels together fuels the effort
Ages I scale are experiences of different personalities
Each stage has its own expressions and demands:
Writing, cooking, doing laundry—little things, mundane and sacred
The progression, a knowing like I felt everything
Fishemen, artists, lactating mothers, even geniuses
Want to live a real life of home.
Sometime I am blinded of what I know
Prevents me from listening
At the end of the tunnel, I hope, is another way
And in the ocean, after I hoist a sail
The wind will pick up
And carry me to a wider reality.
I start putting words in my pocket
The birds start picking and scatter them
Some fall on front yards, others on the river
Fish snatch the floating words
The fishermen jump with surprise
People come out of their doors and greet me
I feel embarrassed, I answer with greetings
I’m thankful, their dogs like me
Tomorrow I will take a basketful of words to the Farmer’s Market
I will sit next to the mushroom grower
She tells stories about creatures in the forest
I will be a good listener.
I am walking to the river.
Sometimes I whistle when I walk Inviting the breeze to come.
The birds whistle to each other.
They hide within the branches of the trees when it rain.
Their wings become heavy when wet.
Some places flood when it rains.
Places next to a river.
Houses along a river.
Even after repeated floods people don’t want leave.
Some mountains have frequent fires.
People who live there also don’t want to move to another plane.
Some people have perseverance.
They have courage to resist.
The cool breeze comes.
I continue my walk.
Sometimes I think of you. I wonder of what you are doing.
I will see you on Thursday.
note:Color my heart with cookies.
Thud, thud, the thudding sound
of a luggage sliding Inside the car’s trunk,
a car driving fast the curves
that’s how my head spins
when I clean the sink of unfulfilled writing promises
I will try again
a new concept of a New Year
to tell a moment of each day
a gathered thought, an instant click of a camera
not a memorized notion of what a day should be,
maybe a spark of enchantment.
Will it make the day meaningful?
But questions do not meant to be answered
I will begin today.
Note: Like a mantra I walk to the river today. The day is spring-like low 60’s, blue sky, flowers and acacia trees are blooming.
The photos from my mobile phone capture the moment.