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Archive for September, 2011

The settling of sunlight is random; a spot here, a brush there, a sweep,

a passage, a glimpse. There is competition for this photosynthetic

nurturing; a branch reaches out, grasses stretch to rise up

 out of the shade, leaves arch and torque for the best exposure.

And even though life and death hang in the balance

 of this contest, there is always dignity.

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When you grow old you will still be beautiful. You won’t have the

rich hues of spring leaves, the lyrical pastels of summer flowers

or the riotous colours of fall foliage. Your beauty will be softer,

more interesting, and meant to be appreciated in a contemplative way;

not in the jarring fashion of youthful splendour.

 

 

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Fall

Fall into my arms. Rest, before you continue your journey.

I’ll support you as long as I’m able and then will join you in a

timeless slumber when I fail, too. When we awake, far into

days unimaginable, we will dance together once again.

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On a stretch of beach left behind in the path of a glacier, stones have

sprung up like static wildflowers in a grassless meadow. The water

and the weather are unable to move the stones; move them quickly,

anyway. So they loiter, shifting this way one era, that way the next.

Their minutes are marked by years, their hours by decades,

their days by centuries.

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There is no such thing as a bad hair day in the forest. Is your mop a

tangled mess, far beyond the penetrating abilities of a comb?

Would your style be best described as a tumbleweed, teased with a

salad fork? Are your roots grey, or even green? Who cares?

You are in a place where beauty is defined as interesting form

meeting captivating light. Fashion doesn’t exist here.

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It is easy to imagine finding peace at the end of this ribbon of dirt road

through pristine woods. It is more difficult to realize that there can be

peace at the end of any road. And the most difficult to realize is that

the greatest peace can be found just traveling along the road.

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Hard Heart

 

A heart of stone floats in a swirl of grey beach sand; its cracked,

stained and battered form is supported by the lyrical designs of the sand,

pushed and shaped by waves and wind. With each beat, the hard heart

is whittled down. Eventually it will be nothing but a grainy memory,

making new patterns in the shifting ether that once held it so securely.

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