This is the day I was telling you about.
The day you’ve been wishing for,
And hoping for, and praying for.
The day you thought might never arrive.
As the sun rises, the day looks quite ordinary.
You can’t remember, but I told you to expect this day,
Not with words, but with silent messages
That I planted deep within your heart as you lay sleeping.
Sleeping, dreaming of the past, mostly,
But also sometimes of a future
In which you are happy.
Where your dreams have all come true.
This is the day I was telling you about.
Wake up and enter your day.
For the sun has spoken.
And the sun can always be believed.
Black bamboo tall and straight and rigid.
Flexible and adjusting attitude.
Wind blowing with force and a mind of its own.
Bamboo enjoys dancing and swaying in the breeze.
Firmly rooted in place.
Creaking stalks and rustling leaves,
Go silent when the wind ceases.
Waiting for the wind-friend to return.
This moon has seen them all.
The explorers, the dreamers,
The wanderers, the lost.
On the shaky soil
Or riding solid waves.
Looking up and finding
A face bright with eyes open.
Appearing interested but neutral
To the changing times.
Best at listening,
And inspiring the best in them all.
Those who look up at the moon.
Little Bird
The unusually bright sunlight pulls me to the backyard this morning.
And a little bird in the pear tree is flitting about,
Chirping incessantly about this and that.
I feel drawn to this bird magnetically,
Believing that she may be a messenger,
Carrying vital information from the World beyond.
Speaking in a language I cannot comprehend.
Expressing a feeling with no meaning,
Or perhaps, a meaning with no feeling.
Either way, she cheers me up,
Showing me the way through another day.
Edges
Edges are the most interesting places to be.
Edges are the zones of interface and interaction.
Edges are sometimes dangerous or distressing,
But edges are always exciting and enticing.
It is in our nature to be drawn to edges:
Water and land
Day and night
Human and animal
God-made and Man-made
Young and old
Life and death.
Out of the Sea
I’ve heard it said that
Long ago, we came out of the sea.
If that is true, it would have happened at the shoreline
Where the wet meets the dry.
In the gritty admix where
Sand is liquid and ocean is solid.
In the tumbled grains that swirl
In the massive wetness that can drown
Or sustain.
We, of primitive form, so long ago
Unaware of all but survival.
Still, knowing somehow,
Before we even knew about arms,
that we were destined to embrace.
Before we could conceive of legs,
that we were meant to run.
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