Poetry: Belief is just one moment

Belief is just one moment.

Love,

is just

every moment.

Arms are never wide enough.

Chest
never
broad
enough,
to hold all of everyone that counts.

All the people that count continues to increase.

Never ceasing, it beats on.

It beats on.

The love
and the head,
and the heart.

William Stonewall Monroe

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The whisking away

The whisking away and the not holding back,
the overwhelming and the giving of slack,
the moments that hide in the corner, waiting,
the times that be are the times that are a changing.

Wind Sand Swirl

Never is not an option,
and ever is the only adoption
Intwined, our histories develop and stride
surpassing the failings in things we have tried

Let us be the butterflies that cause tornadoes

Distraught and overbearing, ceaseless, yet ever caring. Monstrous moons of cloudy descent, forgotten tides of unearthly portent. Repent, seas, give back the sailors whom gave their lives for you. Give us more than smoke signals rising from the carcasses of forgotten vessels.

Hubble's New Eyes: Butterfly Emerges from Stellar Demise in Planetary Nebula NGC 6302
Hubble’s New Eyes: Butterfly Emerges from Stellar Demise in Planetary Nebula NGC 6302 by NASA Goddard Photo and Video, on Flickr

Muscles rippling under the stress, pride dying an untimely death. Forget the moments in which you live and forget your breath. This is the time, and this is your breath. Breathed by time. Breathed by time. Breathed by time. A full breath is a gift, a catacomb holding days past, a garden holding futures not yet living. Tidy and unkempt, but hard to know which is which. There is an unbridled satisfaction in adventured dissatisfaction. An unwieldy joy designed for bold action. Let the tides and the moons and the clouds be rolled back. Let them be pushed by our vessels, the winds pushed by our breath. Let us be the butterflies that cause tornadoes and then ceaselessly repair the unforeseen damages we have done. The future is so bright that I close my eyes and still can not go to sleep. Yet the see to get there is darkness itself.

The Beauty Of A Fall Day

The leaves haven’t yet begun to turn. The air has, though. Brisk, as the clouds cover the sky in the deep, day shortening way that clouds do in the fall, in the winter. Tight little sprinkles, never quite reaching a downpour, never quite leave the air dry.

Autumn in Denali
Some rights reserved by blmiers2

The quiet, almost whispered hints and notes of the effervescent joy that leaps forth from life begin to take.

Hold.

Patience.

Breathe.

Even though the path is clear, the unfortunate reality is that the path is seen as if from the top of a mountain. Clear, direct, and still a few days journey before it is a reality. So our lives begin to turn, from vibrant greens, to brilliant, golden reds.

The expectation is daunting, inescapable, and exhilarating. There is no path but forward. Only one reason is necessary, more than one and you may be trying to convince yourself. Even those not flying south for the winter see geography change. Terrain living and hibernating as the flora lives and hibernates.

In this turning we are made, churned, sifted, fortified, hopefully ending more beautiful than when we began our journey. Hopefully loving well and living to the full with the taste of cider fresh on our tongues. We move from beautiful to practical, from sunflowers to sunflower seeds.

Though I suppose this is simply a transferred beauty. The beauty of a changed identity, a changed purpose. We are never truly discarded, and those who might try only have the control we give them. Fall is a transition, humanity is a transition. Indeed, seasons are called such because they only last for a time.

Yet we are always in a season, we can never escape seasons. Nor would we want to, for it is only through seasons that we reach ripeness, the beauty of wisdom. Fruit is most beautiful when it’s in season. I refuse to believe in the “good old days,” and thereby infer my ripeness has come and gone and now I am rotten.

As fall begins, new life is prepared by the passing of the old. I am grown as I let go of the dust I have been scared to lose, and grapple with the hopes I am scared to choose.William Stonewall Monroe