Finds Roads

It curves and dips, sways and throbs, drops and rises, lives and dies in a cul-de-sac.

I found some wind to push across the side of my face. I suppose it found me as much as I found it, to be perfectly honest. The steering wheel is thick and ignorant beneath my palms. My foot finds its pedestal and stands at attention. We Move.

Driving purges me. It gives me a moment to let go of all those things that refuse to let go of Me. It entertains my fancy and allows me to be anywhere, in any time, and with anyone. Even if that someone happens to be me, or that time happens to be now, or that place happens to be here.

If the grand designer struggled itself out of the dirt before me and granted me one wish, to become one thing, one unending thing, be it a gust of wind, a ray of sunshine, a stream of water, or even a great set of odds at the races... I'd fault and choose none of those. I'd ask to be a road. A long, winding, wandering road that has but one purpose and one purpose only.

A road that finds roads.

Tides

 
The moon finds me big and bold. Or, perhaps I find the moon as such.

This is my time of year. My awakening. My rebirth, if you will. I feel alive, prosperous, possible, and above all of these things... hopeful.

The wind has shrugged off its laziness and wrapped itself with intent. It has purpose now. It brings with it a change, temperature being the most innocent of those charges. It carries vigor. It pushes change. Frankly, it demands it.

I've had such a short life and yet I find myself halfway There.

The simplest of things move me often times. The passing shadow of a cloud, the vague adjustment of a scent, the faint hint of a memory, or a dream. They stir me to my core. I find myself giddy and abundant beneath the full sun above and yet so very shy beneath its bride at night.

Perhaps it's simply the tides that work there way into Me.

In the Autumn of my Eve

I so desperately wanted her to believe that I was a Vagabond worth keeping.

In a sense.

Unencumbered by the quiet patience that only Fall can exude, I burst, bold and brash, upon her stages. Oh, there were so very many to perform upon. Nestled between the shoulders of the smothering summer warmth and the aloof approach of a bitter winter cold, we found our way in the uncertainty that is the In Between.

Wide eyed, wonderful, and young enough to believe forever was a nomenclature for the rest of my moments, I drowned within the ticking drops of a bedside clock. Piercing red numbers, glaring out from a soft, plastic sheath, prying their way beneath my eyelids. How majestic & cruel goodness can be defines me to this very day.

There were quilted skies. So many nights blanketed by them. Quilted.

In the hopeful dreams of youth and the waning recall of age & discretion, there exists a place where all things are completely wrong and yet so very, very right.

I hear a lonely violin that seems so out of place yet so wonderful and moving, pulsing inside my eardrum. I can hear it and yet, I cannot. A singular sound finding its way without a whimper. A raindrop that began a deluge.

In the autumn of my eve, I remain.

At least tonight.

Someone's Hand

I kind of like orbiting. It makes me feel wide open and unending.

Much in the same way that the wheat on a late summer day sways its way beneath a harvest moon. Let the wind push me into the blades of the tall grass and then pull me back, high and proud. I suppose that isn't so much of an orbit as it is a swagger.

I kind of like swaggering too, though.

Orbit & Swagger. I may have just invented the best folk group you've never heard of. Or possibly a Sunday morning "Hour of Power".

Sometimes the colors are too vivid, too bright, to bold. Sometimes the colors are too alive. Sometimes I step back and envy them for that very thing. Still, I'm trying my best to glow.

The other evening I plucked a small stone from a stream and held it in my hand. Watching the water dry upon its smooth surface, suddenly everything found clarity. Ironically enough, that sudden clarity found Me. Maybe we're all rough and jaded for a season, but with the winds of time or the waters of days, maybe just maybe we'll end up smooth and comfortable.

Even comfortable enough to hold.

In someone's hand.

As it were.