The wind within, once so wild to ride the high blue, was gathered, fitted into numbered squares, calibrations of what remained to be done, as if to equate mind to a state of landscape, to formalize space and time with logic alone.
But, as we are bone, so are we dream, as we are ash, so are we seed.
I know a place where poets and painters trace the faces of God, and within a leaf, the other side of the moon. It is that space between skin and bone, I call 'Life".
And so, I have become accustomed to the simple treacheries of people, of the fear time can bring. I greet each day as does a sailor a fresh wind, a wind in search of