I have to wonder if we have confused hardness with the strength it takes to truly give and receive love. There is much power in its gentleness.
Seek not a hard heart, but, one that is soft and pliable. One that is kind. One that is loving.
Have you found the sunshine, tucked in the clouds on this perfect day? Today was a perfect day for a perfect day. Flowers everywhere. The bouquet was a rather pleasant smell, following me down the street, I got to enjoy it for a bit longer. What better way to document my day than to take a walk through life? I like that idea, more and more.
What will you do while you are patiently waiting for your turn to bloom?
May I interrupt this post for a moment? Without a doubt, I am remiss, in showing off, once again my knight in shining armor to your regularly scheduled living. He stands tall, in the season, all.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree
Joyce Kilmer
The other day, I asked you if the sun shines in your soul, does it really matter if it rains outside? If you asked me a few days ago, as the area was flooding, right before my very eyes, I might have said, yes!! It matters. But, oh, what a difference a day makes! For, in the end, I found, it really doesn't matter at all. Nobody can take my sunshine away.
Oh, there is a necessity in writing, penning my thoughts, journaling or whatnot – for how else will I capture the moment as it passes; what happens if I should forget those minute details, or worse, what if I forget that moment – to be gone like an exhale on a cold morning?
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment — but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer? - Lord Byron
Whispered words, cannot be heard
But, only by the heart
As it should be
My love, my love
I remain quiet, I won't say a word
If you cannot hear, there is nothing to say
All I have are my words, armed in my mind, written in pen, stand by stand. Oh, yes. Still by hand. It has a different feel. Altered not by keys, backspace, and delete, I write, erase, tear it to pieces and start all over again. And again.
It’s my way. I walk out to the deep end of the page and dive right in.
I want to thank you for coming along as I perused the likes of musings, words and #TreeTuesday, eclectic and true, brought by me to you. And just that quick, this show is over. Tag me and I will visit your trees too! Thank you!
