I am learning softness,
Not reflections divine.
Hearing words missing;
Kindness shared in
Passing time.
Shadows sharing my subtlety
Working my antiques
Flowing warmly about
My shifting stream.
Tag: antique
Fresh Hay (day 1847)
I wandered into an empty barn, and couldn’t figure out why the hay still smelt fresh. My eyes adjusted with a twinkling daylight filtering in through cracks in the wooden walls, dust that may have once been settled was caught suspended in the beams of light and my eyes scanned the well worn floor, distracted by the antique tools laying about as if still in use. How could I know what had come here before? How could, with a flash like a blink, memories flicker through my vision as if my transistor radio had suddenly happened upon a past I knew well?