A handful of smoke...

Sunlight. Wafey, pale yellow, dainty, elegant, sturdy, slender stems of hydrangeas peering through light at me. Quietly waiting for the warm hugs of spring.

Wisps, muffles, muted, joyous spoken music of friends, families, lovers, mothers, those gathered; wafting through the air.

A table of gentle, beautifully aged women by me. Sharing stories, silvery hair beautifully curled in place, wrinkles carefully drawn on their faces - stories of depth, unspoken but felt. A deliberate gentleness.

Notes of guitar, drums, and singing voices. Soft, low tones and happy melodies. Soothing, silky tunes dancing in my ear.

A sip of the tingly, warm, orange ginger mint tea; carressed by the earthy green mug that hugs it in place.

The soft, burning glow of the oak that holds me and my pages, a subtle hue of golden warmth, falling...On my pages.

This. Moment. This. Now.

It is my handful of smoke - soft, present, light. Gentle curls of - happiness, grace, gratitude.

Seen. Felt. Believed. Offered.