welcome rare wordsmith at the end of predicting the beginning sense of rustic now and then. welcome rare reader in the scheme of pouring water over rocks, into the night and out again. welcome rare idle period after which there is more and until there is more there isn�t even enough. consider this reader and writer, together, sorting thru books and book membranes until the dear hour looks over or the rain is more than mere rocks ago. welcome intention but at the door of the chapel in the green hills for an hour or more someday not exactly now but waiting for tulips and daffodils to distraction. welcome men and women that are the children even still, all the while, into the river when it goes and selling so much forever. this is your day place, partly or over the long green pasture of which you have said something.
I want to be kind, like a shack in the forest, a river passes by, each bird pulls a position into play, the favour of a glint of summer on river surface or the ice that happens, time to help and heal and listen while the birds,
again, the air is rich, a chord sounds perfectly, for time exists in dollops, then the still, the reaching, the elegant and playful, going on as going can be complete, I want this in a light of loving, come to passion, elect and give, this is a mantra for a day, when I am strong, and verses tell a story, and story leaves a place for moments in the glare, tell you there.
