Woolgathering

although it appeared to all that I was still among them, wrapped in human tasks, with both feet on the ground

What do we do Great Barrymore?
We stagger
What shall we do simple monk?
Be of good heart

The face of art, in profile. The face of denial, blessed

I searched the clouds for omens, answers.

In what manner it doesn’t matte

us, a drop of faceted blood, more real than a ghost, glowing. If we stir it may disappear.

How happy we are as children. How the light is dimmed by the voice of reason.

I stood and watched the children at play and something in the atmosphere — the filtered light, the scent of things — carried me back …

my writing desk awaits, my open journal, my quills, inks, and there are precious words to grind

So I leave myself to wonder and begin, for I always imagined I would one day write a book