tight white buds
On a damp day in in the cold,
Now the blossoms
sit on my
from the rain and wind that
to the ground.
. . .
To read a poem is to hear it with our eyes; to hear it is to see it with our ears. —Octavio Paz
I never know what I will find as I walk outside my door each morning. Sights, sounds, and textures never cease to surprise me. A younger me might have rushed past, never taking the briefest second to glimpse the beauty shouting at me to notice.
Life remains busy, yet slower—more measured and thoughtful. Is this what years of living reveal?
If so, I’m ever grateful that I finally took notice. Didn’t anyone tell me to “stop and smell the roses?” That phrase rings in my memory. I ignored the admonition. Who has time for that?
In fact, who has time not to? Considering the vastness of time and the universe, our speck of humanity represents nothing more than a fleeting blimp on the timeline.
Somewhere in my growing up, I learned to reflect. No, that is not correct. I have always had an obsession with thinking, wondering, questioning, and listening to music only a soul can touch.