Poetry (words)

Sunday morning. 


Sometimes when the days are too full to catch my breath I long for Sunday morning. In the room scented by a fresh bouquet of hyacinth and freesias. 

My thoughts untangle here, without force, without having to try. The map for the day ahead unfolds before me, but I choose no particular route. 

Silence, the conductor of this symphony, this treasured time. Like a walk in the woods at dawn. Contentment remains at my side without the blinkers of promises from yesterdays past. 

I hope for the planet, that better days will come, that the cruelty and anger will somehow fade. I hope that mankind will see the simplicity of peace amongst the rubble where children once played. 

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Poetry (words)

Scattered thoughts.

Sometimes it’s the scattered seeds that grow the stronger roots. Perhaps it’s in settling where they choose to be that they find strength. 

To plant a seed and see it grow is (I believe) as awe inspiring as any of the seven wonders. How with care and attention the soil thanks us with the sweetest of perfume, where insects dance on pollen filled buds. Survival of the species at war with our neglect. 

To lay in the shelter of the air that we breathe and not be humbled is a display of the ignorance that led us here. Step back and take a look how far we’ve come, balance that with the destruction it took to achieve our goals.

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