In some little town in the middle of the desert lives a stop-and-check-it-out thrift store.
I bought two blank cards: one for a friend, one for myself.
Later that night, with the stars and the fire as light, I picked up a pen.
I didn't have anything to say, but somehow I filled the empty pages.
Note to self...
November 10th, 2017
The page is blank and I've got nothing to say-
but I'll muster up something and save it for a rainy day.
What is the point to this life I ask?
The signs hidden in plain sight.
The point is not to merely count-
lost in memories or resurfaced doubt.
There is no goal and no place to be,
for it is the experience of waking up each day.
Wiping the crust from our dusty eyes and
letting go of the lonely miles.
A glimmer of ease in every shaky tree,
emptying itself of last seasons sorrows-
making room for infinite tomorrows.
Connection is found, right here and right now-
place another sage brush on this burning desert fire.
With each exhale the flame grew higher,
another day older yet getting closer
to that familiar innocent child.
Dirty hands darkened with ash,
beauty found in a dying past.
Me, My and the Mind
hanging out like long lost friends.
Where I've been and where I'm going,
finding solace in not knowing.
Another transition, subtle though strong.