of things unseen and unspoken—
the adventure is drifting through the dark
with senses that can't be explained
and reason that can't be proven—
only believed in.
and only followed with blind
and relentlessly unfailing faith.
an odd thing. happening when you least expect it.
maybe even when you think it never will.
little is defined by seeking,
only in creating and building can we see more clearly what sustains us.
the thread that binds the fabric—
connecting icy coastal new england to the sunshine state and west,
where tidy rows of corn stand still.
forgotten, her other two siblings are left behind—
so we must be reminded.
tenderly, love cares for the fragile white roots of new families
and gives energy to the more established
oaks, sugar maples, and willows as they guide (and protect) future saplings.
for no one gets very far on their own.
a seed is only carried so far on wings of a sparrow—
a plume of dandelion fuzz on a breeze of a summer day—
or an acorn clenched tightly in the embrace of a critter—
stored for future use before it finds itself alone again on the ground where it began.
where circumstances may be ripe—
or they may be desolate—
but survival is the only option.
so, we sprout roots and surrender.
"grow up," our older generation might say.
we start weaving:
over, under, over, under,
a patchwork that resembles a life.
because soon, our story will be told only by what we have left behind:
in creation, in footsteps, in a glorious mess—
where once our beautiful, yet insignificant, physical bodies once stood.