Patriarchs of time and cyles, brute strength pushing me forward when all I want to do is to rest for a while and be still, to contemplate and adjust, not move on and forget.
After the fact I look up. Feminine shades of hue outline billowing puffs of compressed fog smiling into the rising sun. Stillness, stillness, they greet the rising masculine one, but for this moment, all I have to do is to look, and see, and be.
Despite the lightness of the beauty, my heart is heavy, troubled. She will never again be part of this stillness. There will be no more morning coffees in quietness. No longer will blankets shelter us from the outside cold, the outside time. No more pancakes steaming on the grill. Still, quiet moments of being are found, remembered -- time pressures in, erasing them one by one.
Yet, if I stay quiet, and turn my back to the rising sun, all I can see is beauty, and stillness, and quietness. My soul rushes up to Thee, I cannot remember, slowly I forget. The sun warms my arms, my shoulders, my neck. My coffee is almost gone. Memory evaporates into light. I’ve got more important things to do. I’m awake. I’m awake.