Hushed light painting a still December afternoon

A place where morning can never quite conclude.

Where the hills sit in long rows, waiting for something to call.

.

Somewhere here, a trail always searched for, old rusty sign dangling from the same branch,

Waiting to rattle on the next wind. Just like it always was.

Along the rocky slope, through the oak trees, and onto the more gentle grassy slope below,

So much more to trudge.

.

Little paths wander through the bunch grasses

Dried and standing tall, golden celebration of summer

On this eve of winter’s arrival.

Captured in a moment of exhale where nothing stirs.

A new dream now, with the old things scattered around.

.

There you lay, quietly trembling in tears

Falling and sliding down a long blade of grass

Maybe the only rain, this time.

You might lay here for a thousand years, finally letting the long grassy wands bend over,

To offer you comfort,

Or to cry with you.

.

Further down the trail, an old stone fence,

moss-covered, where the old men once sat swapping secrets

Told a dozen times over while the grass scratched and swayed

On a late August breeze

Letting in a moment of quiet to their familiar banter.

Usually, it never starts with a dream

The dream meticulously sculpted into an expectation

So perfect that the cries of ecstasy roar along the river

Erasing any hope of stillness that might have been there

Had nothing ever been imagined in the first place.

.

Hmmmph

.

Usually it never starts with that first sight

That look into perfection that never was dreamed any better

Better than last time, but only to be washed away

With enthusiasm misplaced and gone awry

In manic flailings trying to capture it all in one fell swoop.

.

Ohhhhh

.

Sometimes, admittedly, it might start with a splash of apathy

Because it has to be done and here we are

And along the way it becomes the dream

And the perfection reveals itself in little debates

Comparing this to that and wondering if this is even better.

.

Oooooohhhhh

.

Always, though, a script unfolds, eluding time’s wicked arrow

Bathed in a moment eluding any grasp of perfection

Surrounded by silent calls and responses each asking nothing

Together, creating the pulsing song of a mid-winter river.

…..Just right here………………….All along this place…..

…..Then and now………………….The same story told…..

…..All through this place………..Today in yesterday……

…..Down there……………………..Years ago………………

…..And behind……………………..This sidewalk………….

…………………………………………………………………….

…..Almost like now………………..The youth……………..

…..Barely a thought………………..The age……………….

…..For a second…………………….The excitement………

…..Just like then……………………A years’ long now……

……………..Walking by this place……………..

………………..Just now, as then………………..

…………………….A moment…………………….

………………Here in the long now…………….

note: Credit for the concept of the “long now” goes to others,

please see The Long Now Foundation for thought provoking concepts of society, time, social responsibility, and long term thinking

Whispering wild green secrets

Sliding smooth stones under your emerald belly

Gathered strength, exhale, returning

Winter’s quiet. We dream.

Counting your beats in raindrops

Measuring our time into strained waiting,

We paint colors, water, silver on canvas imagined.