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recipe for bliss
The sky, the sky, oh god this morning's sky.
There are no words. No words. Some things exist beyond the simple use of them, and that is just as it should be.
I spent two quick vanishing hours on the glider on the back porch. The air is cool today, and I sat wrapped up in my father's discarded plaid flannel jacket and a warm blanket, to block the wind. The dragonflies hummed and darted through the flowers. I watched thin wisps of clouds swim across the blue, that everlasting canvas of tree-framed sky, and disappear. More clouds would come to pass, but the sky - the sky remained.
The wind played the chimes, a beatiful song - and, shaded by the house from the sun, I read Plath, read haunted, marrow-deep words in my makeshift paradise.
Today, joy is in my blood. I don't have to search for it. I don't have to create it. It is there, all around me and in me. It is everything. It is me.
There are no words. No words. Some things exist beyond the simple use of them, and that is just as it should be.
I spent two quick vanishing hours on the glider on the back porch. The air is cool today, and I sat wrapped up in my father's discarded plaid flannel jacket and a warm blanket, to block the wind. The dragonflies hummed and darted through the flowers. I watched thin wisps of clouds swim across the blue, that everlasting canvas of tree-framed sky, and disappear. More clouds would come to pass, but the sky - the sky remained.
The wind played the chimes, a beatiful song - and, shaded by the house from the sun, I read Plath, read haunted, marrow-deep words in my makeshift paradise.
Today, joy is in my blood. I don't have to search for it. I don't have to create it. It is there, all around me and in me. It is everything. It is me.