pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” ~ William Wordsworth
The Ladybug and the Ant
Was it the rays and glory from the halo that shone off the angels when I looked through your eyes that mid morning?
Echoes from the halls, but yet in the embrace of my arms, so quiet, with the look of content and glowing from knowing.
This was your place, from which you will take root and bloom. No other saw, but you raised your head, and seeped through my soul, as I saw the rarest of all two.
It was like when you stumble upon these rigid rocks, and realize deep inside it’s only for you, it would sparkle and shine, the rarest of hue.
To first grasp your head, it felt like a million downy feathers bundled in one. So gentle was your presence, it would make me from that second change.
I was like the oyster that would hold and embrace its pearl deep within, and keep it safe from harm. It would try this for so long, and it would not exchange.
This feeling for no other, your fingers, how they would drown my finger in emotion as it sought to do, with you wrapped around like a yellow ribbon on that old oak tree.
It is so hard to speak of how you came here, how it was possible to make such a being, a new petal on that rose bud, and you came to be.
It seems it was the day before when this all was true. Now I see you play in the gold and burgundy fall, with that smile that makes me weak, my little mister.
I would love to say you were the only thing that climbed my ivy filled fence, but you were just as equal, and yet so far, as the day I met your sister.
Oh, my little blue morning orchid that came to my life. Her eyes were not as loud, silent, yet she knew this was home, like a baby deer drinking in the forest down upon the silvered creek.
She was a girl of any, her hair as soft as the first plucked wish weeds. To know what life was before her, was far too bleak.
Her toes were as small as the minced grains of stones you find in the coral hiding of the beaches of riddance.
She was beyond what I made her up to be. It was like when you would see a red robin fluff its breast up in all its brilliance.
It knew it was radiant and bright, and my love for her grew with every sight.
Her sweetness set you on a trail of a truffle chocolate turbulent delight.
When I would see her, and light stands still, I would lean into those timber bridged eyes.
My son, as the curious ant leaving the pack, and my daughter, as the ladybug resting on the grass blade.
Without these two, I would be nothing. It would come to no surprise, I would most likely shrivel to my demise.
~~ Janie Welsh ~~