I want to hear the story of you,
falling in love with me.
I want to feel it alive in me even as it changes subtly into the myth of our beginnings.
We have begun to reminisce from within.
A couple winters of cold.
And afterwards work to do at softening what had found reason to harden.
To open, what wanted to close fearful of the dark and the light,
fearful of tomorrows and all they entail.
There is romance in remembering too.
A time to highlight the seeds and the Springs:
first notes exchanged, climbing a tree, forested nights, untethering, anxious hopes, a hand
First kiss.
I've encountered crossroads where love meets perspective and found the altars where offerings of peace are given.
But those paths never seem to run parallel.
Sometimes the road seems so undefined I wonder where I wandered off it?
And I start staring at the sky again looking for a sense of direction.
Our journey hasn't led us into summer quite yet or borne the fruits of fall, though we have grown.
Those places are still perhaps lands that this path, the one of you and I, might not lead to.
Still we sow seeds each new spring with faith into our well-worn stubbornness.
Sometimes the uncertainty of twists and turns lends hope when reaching the top of a hill or the rounding of a corner a glimpse of a view and as yet unvisited cities.
Sometimes I feel we’re living at the bottom of another hill to climb and finding myself with more water to tread, I grow weary.
A part of me longs for wild and windswept peaks and sun drenched dirt roads leading to:
red rock spires, desert sunsets, moonlit shorelines and a lover just as wild to dance with.
Another keeps trying to build a garden gate to plant rosemary beside, to clear a patch in all that is wild within in order to grow this vision of home that also resides in me.
I have yet to find the certainty in a place where wildness whips and rings around serenity and I can breathe in both without waking with a longing after something I can't quite picture but I feel is fading away.
Still I have a faith that the place exists where we don't have to pick apart dreams and compromise our own callings in service to something we're not certain is really greater after all.
Somewhere there is a sunny cabin with a porch and inside a table and bread
falling in love with me.
I want to feel it alive in me even as it changes subtly into the myth of our beginnings.
We have begun to reminisce from within.
A couple winters of cold.
And afterwards work to do at softening what had found reason to harden.
To open, what wanted to close fearful of the dark and the light,
fearful of tomorrows and all they entail.
There is romance in remembering too.
A time to highlight the seeds and the Springs:
first notes exchanged, climbing a tree, forested nights, untethering, anxious hopes, a hand
First kiss.
I've encountered crossroads where love meets perspective and found the altars where offerings of peace are given.
But those paths never seem to run parallel.
Sometimes the road seems so undefined I wonder where I wandered off it?
And I start staring at the sky again looking for a sense of direction.
Our journey hasn't led us into summer quite yet or borne the fruits of fall, though we have grown.
Those places are still perhaps lands that this path, the one of you and I, might not lead to.
Still we sow seeds each new spring with faith into our well-worn stubbornness.
Sometimes the uncertainty of twists and turns lends hope when reaching the top of a hill or the rounding of a corner a glimpse of a view and as yet unvisited cities.
Sometimes I feel we’re living at the bottom of another hill to climb and finding myself with more water to tread, I grow weary.
A part of me longs for wild and windswept peaks and sun drenched dirt roads leading to:
red rock spires, desert sunsets, moonlit shorelines and a lover just as wild to dance with.
Another keeps trying to build a garden gate to plant rosemary beside, to clear a patch in all that is wild within in order to grow this vision of home that also resides in me.
I have yet to find the certainty in a place where wildness whips and rings around serenity and I can breathe in both without waking with a longing after something I can't quite picture but I feel is fading away.
Still I have a faith that the place exists where we don't have to pick apart dreams and compromise our own callings in service to something we're not certain is really greater after all.
Somewhere there is a sunny cabin with a porch and inside a table and bread
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