Reader

[panic in paradise]

at the shores cliff-side, she stood waiting - her tears met the ocean, the same as always

at the way's side, he hesitated, then fallowed the current home -
this story has been written.

the same as pages falling in a book, black ink on white paper - all remains unjust until, both sides meet again - give words life, you are the reader.

 

[herbavore]

^^the words began to blur and the reader was unsure if it were her own tears or the salt spray-- or both. She let them run, rivulets of black on white bleeding to gray. In her pocket, always the paintbrush, always the pen. She chose the brush. She read the soft, wet meanings under the letters, let the bristles of the brush swirl the grays into cloudshapes and remembered this: at two, strapped into the blue corduroy car-seat, he took his thumb out of his mouth and said,"When I was a cloud, I floated,too. And I change-ed to another cloud lots of times." This story keeps writing itself, without words, past language, and she is a beginning reader, laboriously sounding out new meaning.

pip

 

[panic in paradise]

...



"When I was a cloud, I floated,too. And I change-ed to another cloud lots of times."

amazing
this readers ink hit the paper as-well, and as it dried, what was left behind to stay is the salt of the earth - in memory Of the sands of time.


~ who art though -
with out such canvas of life ?

 

[panic in paradise]

one views life, in accordance with their passion, ones passion is the basis of their life - what is reflected forth, is the light of all life.

all is well now
for now be
in life
now
.

 

[herbavore]

one views life, in accordance with their passion, ones passion is the basis of their life - what is reflected forth, is the light of all life.

all is well now
for now be
in life
now
.

...and I change-ed to another cloud lots of times."

sometimes a river veers off the course it has deepened and married and loved for what feels like a lifetime (but what is a lifetime to a river?)

I know a river like that. It runs through the redwood forest east of my house. Where it used to run is now a bleached boneyard of dry cobbles and ivory sticks and dead mosses, once green and flowing, now withered like hair singed the color of ash. The new river bed isn't far away; in fact it is only a few feet away, separated by what were once willows growing on the bank of the old bed, now an island between what was and what is. I love the parched glare of the old river bed and I love the deep pools of the new channel. I feel for the old roots, left high and dry. I feel for the roots newly drowning in too much water. I love the empty palette of what has been exposed. I also love how the river draws a brush over rocks that were muted ochers and greys and turns them to vermillion and jade.

"all is well now
for now be
in life
now

."

in a long life it is beneficial to study water and to listen to clouds.

 

[panic in paradise]

in a long life, it is beneficial to make the bed of the earth with the same care as one would the bed of their own child, and in a long life it, is also beneficial to be the light of the Sun, as one would the light of their own father.


and in a complete life, to consider the thoughts, with consideration of the moon, the sea will be in prospective again, settled.


allow all living things and what these living things live amongst, to bend and bow with the breeze, allow all the air to carry with pace, wild and brisk and pure air to breathe and see in, allow all illustrious light to be touching to all, allow the creative element of said silverRiver, to carry this inspiration through the passion of love light and life, in all harmonious amplitude. may the beauty of all be in and amongst your loving arms, in the light of and air of truth, may we drink from you pure waters freely. hold the earth lovingly as she does us, return the same, and receive the same for the body mind and soul of all.


~*~
Pace Carries All

 

[herbavore]

^^
May we celebrate all that we have been given: the short day, the long night.
May we celebrate the dove grey morning with her soft tears and the citrine laughter of afternoon breaking through, and the amber closing.
May we celebrate the blue flame evening and the steam rising from soup and the slow melody of comfort.
May we celebrate the sound of love and the salt and honey taste and the surprising touch.
May we celebrate by twirling until we lie still, breathing hard.
May we celebrate by hesitant singing that swells to muscular song.
May we celebrate by staying or by stepping away into the next.