Blades of grass

7:23 am Sunday morning and the mockingbird has been through his entire repertoire. The sun has woken and warms up to my back, my hair begins to gently steam still wet and dark, it is thirstily drinking back the yellow and I am alone in bliss-for a moment.
It has been so long, I must remember where I keep this safe...

Not even the fountain bubbles about, the chimes do not add their sway and the leaves simply lay. Even they are subdued in a lazy Sun day where a sweet honey suckle lingering moment like this is sprawled out onto the page and sugar keeps my fingers moving, licking and lapping for language. 

But don't interrupt this frame, the cat is curled on my lap, after heaving a small sigh purrs himself to sleep. My book is propped face down, a finger always in, sticky reader... 

I may bring my face up and take in a peace-a-lone...before my cell phone pipes up, bellies are growling, weed whackers whir and a lawn-mower starts snipping too close to my time...cut too short to say, it can wait for another day...




Photo by Unknown [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A moment of Time spent in graveyards

From the alchemist's stone, third face, eyeing the lake, the ripples stop and reflection takes shape, 

it reads:

"I am an orphan, alone; nevertheless I am found everywhere. I am one, but opposed to myself. I am youth and old man at one and the same time. I have known neither father nor mother, because I have had to be fetched out of the deep like a fish, or fell like a white stone from heaven. In woods and mountains I roam, but I am hidden in the innermost soul of man. I am mortal for everyone, yet I am not touched by the cycle of aeons*." 

*Jung, C. (1963). The Tower. In Memories, dreams, reflections (p. 227). New York: Pantheon Books.

Image By Feťour (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Carlsbad Cemetery 2011, Czech Republic.