A soft, quiet, morning. A cool, blue, translucent sky. The house sleeps. My eyes wander the room, my mind in different stories and thoughts. To do lists, plans and goals. Some as light as a fluttering silk sheet in the window, others dense and convoluted. Then there are those that rise and dance in a soft, silvery, vapor as if escaping from the incense of me.
This is the morning. This is another sun. This is another dance. Through the questions and locked doors. Through answers and open windows and vast spaces.
The morning, with its promise ; of faith, of being, of constance, of persistence. With its promise of being present, of tenderness....
Tenderness, this stays with me. This holds my hand, gently weaving a cloud for my feet and paints a song for my soul. It says; Rise, be slow, be soft, be human. Dance. Hold the morning.
This is the morning. This is another sun. This is another dance. Through the questions and locked doors. Through answers and open windows and vast spaces.
The morning, with its promise ; of faith, of being, of constance, of persistence. With its promise of being present, of tenderness....
Tenderness, this stays with me. This holds my hand, gently weaving a cloud for my feet and paints a song for my soul. It says; Rise, be slow, be soft, be human. Dance. Hold the morning.
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