francis is gliding across the morning aboard a dream-boat, christoper is traveling in senegal, and i have just padded back to my perch from the kitchen, from where the french press called. when i saw the weather report, i thought i might feel like doing a bit of writing about switzerland, finally, or about how the book i am reading (to bless the space between us by john o'donohue) feels like prayer, but here, now, just as it is starting to pour, a single thought is blooming: when he wakes, we'll walk to look again at the branches that have been so quiet these months, and i will tell him again of their names (forsythia, magnolia, merry bells, shooting star, glory-of-the-snow...to say them aloud is a festival, a parade) and i will tell him once more of how it all feels to me, to be still, to wait and wonder and watch. (holy. pure. like a kept promise. like love. a feeling to get lost inside.)
22 March 2019
rose spun morning.
francis is gliding across the morning aboard a dream-boat, christoper is traveling in senegal, and i have just padded back to my perch from the kitchen, from where the french press called. when i saw the weather report, i thought i might feel like doing a bit of writing about switzerland, finally, or about how the book i am reading (to bless the space between us by john o'donohue) feels like prayer, but here, now, just as it is starting to pour, a single thought is blooming: when he wakes, we'll walk to look again at the branches that have been so quiet these months, and i will tell him again of their names (forsythia, magnolia, merry bells, shooting star, glory-of-the-snow...to say them aloud is a festival, a parade) and i will tell him once more of how it all feels to me, to be still, to wait and wonder and watch. (holy. pure. like a kept promise. like love. a feeling to get lost inside.)
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