they seem to have their own stories, sitting, beautifully on a display rack the story of rainbows: a promise, to not kill everyone with another flood. i look out my window. at that bulletproof rainbow, these days, our sense of safety forever gone, we want it back. i hear that promises get broken, shattered like hearts. when the mighty have fallen, nothing and nowhere feels secure. we should try to remember to celebrate our beautiful memories; never forget the fallen, while we breathe.
she is a yellow lily buried in a floral department bouquet. nobody knows how difficult everything has become. winter is a day in an icy desert, a perpetual frosty nightmare. listen to the chatter of freezing teeth, know that this is a time for fire and fireplaces. understand it is a season to comfort, to be comforted. a day will come when green meets warmth, creating excitement. meanwhile we will comfort ourselves with her beauty she is a yellow lily buried in a floral department bouquet.
Unless the Centre unless the centre holds, there is no way to win. so beautiful when she was just a girl. the centre of her world, he had clay feet. she had a friend just up the street, when they were young, their lives were sweet. but time went on, they grew apart, and then she gave away her heart. and found a boy she liked so well, she did not think what games he played. unless the centre holds, there is no way to win. so beautiful when she was just a girl. the centre of her world, he had clay feet.
sunflowers bow to autumn ripening just in time for little birds celebrating ripe sunflowers. winds ring our big wind chime. i look out the window watching those birds, and see them thrown about by the wind like leaves dancing with a breeze. the sunflower's gone now, harvested and dry. little birds have moved on; little wings will fly.
all we want is something to brighten our days. covid killed our hallowe'en. the neighbor's children and a friend came to the door, before darkness (they really could not wait) silence for an hour, then a few bigger kids, all before seven. looking back at bright memories of hallowe'en, and flowers in a vase, sitting pretty on a shelf, waiting mindless, for a buyer. all we want is something to brighten our days.
White Puzzle what is this white puzzle, appearing as if by magic, something i do not even remember? delicate, inside the centre, all erotic, attracting pollinators, happily seduced. white on white, so hard to photograph! subtleties win the prize on a cloudy day. i do not envy its pollinators, they work so hard, for so, so little. but then we must, and that includes me too, be very grateful that they flew past and stopped.
i met a man who could not see any colour. though i love to see colour, i didn't pity; the man with no colour was good as any. he lived his way, making this world his own. he wasn't disabled in any way. nobody knows what other senses he may have had. he wasn't talking about such things. perhaps there is no way to speak of unshared visions. we all walk alone.
is it never beautiful when it looks out of focus? focus is certainty. and we seem to like it. but is it ever to be really trusted? too much time in easy chairs might make my back ache. sometimes i need to find a less comfortable pastime. i need to refocus on certainty and learn to see the never seen, and maybe understand beyond focus, where there are different beauties.
yesterday's flower at the north end of a sunbeam, some things seem never outdated. but yesterday's sunshine has lost its meaning, relevance and excitement, colours fading now. as i look out the window, i see winter approach. a chill already blights the morning light.
on hands and knees i twist and stretch looking for an image i could love, up above it all, a golden light cruises overhead. but shadows move imperceptably slowly. so things change. i see no movement, and so it is. my vision has no great value. i do not matter. and there it is! the very thing i wanted, picture of joy, summer on a screen. i'll put it on a page. someone will surely love it. so i like to think, anyways