Before she’s drawn a second breath or viewed her mother’s face, a newborn seeks the breast. No special training’s needed, there’s no test for measuring a baby’s aptitude or mother’s love. The cycle is renewed as fed becomes the feeder, doubly blessed with strength. Instinctively, we all ingest the substance packed in life-sustaining food.
So why should care and feeding of the soul be shrouded in enigma? Through the worst imponderable doubts, our Living Guide extends a standing offer: “Here’s a bowl of hearty stew for free.” And with a burst of sight, the inner cynic’s pacified.
Every night when Lady Luna beams across the wooded steep after daily clamor dwindles and the children fall asleep Emma comes to tend the garden, kiss the flowers, and commune with the fairies, imps, and pixies frolicking beneath the moon.
Emissaries of the spirits spawned before the planet’s birth, Emma and her sisters hover gently on the edge of Earth in the space between confusion over what we’re doing here and The Realm That Knows Forever liberated from the sphere.
She is but a fleeting image of the fiber that connects all the multiverse’s secrets to the path that intersects with the pattern of Creation spreading from a single source, infinite beyond description, dauntless on its chosen course.
Someone waited in the shadows half the night to capture proof in a picture we can study, then she vanished in a poof, so I left this verse for Emma in a scented envelope thanking her for nightly visits sprinkling peace and feeding hope.
Given the sinister nature of tyranny strutting its stuff on the national stage, why should an outbreak of violent rage come as surprise when another atrocity borne on the bullets of deadly velocity massacres hope?
Spare the survivors the further indignity pouring from pundits’ imperious airs, hogging the cameras, offering prayers full of their own brand of blatant hypocrisy. Decency clings to our fragile democracy — throw it a rope!
Bring us some leaders with proven integrity poised to deliver the legal restraints long overdue. As the world reacquaints citizens’ rights with the cry of humanity, carry the flag of compassionate sanity mounting the slope.
There is more to a word than the spelling, neither future nor past in its tense, and the story that grows in the telling can jump over a pastoral fence on the drive coming home. It’s compelling in a deeper than physical sense.
When I think of the love that enfolds me in the leap of a frolicsome pup and the arms of a husband who holds me like an obelisk propping me up, there’s a presence that softens and molds me to the shape of serenity’s cup.
From a window, the woodland is sounding with the hush of an orderly mind. In a natural rustic surrounding there is space for the nerves to unwind from the noise of a world that is pounding the humanity out of mankind.
So the run-of-the-mill intersection on the way to our humble abode masquerades our affluent connection to a heavenly area code as it leads to supernal perfection living large at a bend in the road.