At the end of the Earth will we not want to scream, that we bore witness to the thrashing beauty of all things?
Earth scorched, flooded, tempested, frozen… that we saw the eagle fly the iridescent, velvet head of the mallard the soft hunch of squirrel?
That for a time, this was given us to delight upon and to commune?
At the end of the age, do we even recognize our own hollowed hands that wrought the final emptiness?
The weightiness of beauty, Like a millstone that threatens to pull you down…unto breathless death. A single pulsating star visible in the Apparition of distant mountain peaks Now, presently being gift
Have you ever felt your heartbeat in your toes? Wrinkled them under the sheets to intensify the 3…4…5…6…? Have you ever stared at someone in the dark waiting for them to awaken to you? Life moves
Where is sadness birthed? I mean, from what eternal wellspring does it rush to me in unexpected, assaulting moments? Is there some mystical river, or pit, or ocean fissure which pulses hot with the