Ah! The fresh night air as it hit my face. I close my eyes to absorb. The smoke billows upward like an ascending oblong cloud whose movement is refined to that of choreographed spiral steps in tune with the sparks.
The sparks, as they escape the main flame, intertwine to mime that of braided snakes making liquid way in lakes whose stones are but the stars.
Black is the blanket whose cover looms above holed with the rocks’ glimmer. I did not spy the moon.
Hail to the awakening whose spirit sores upon the birth. Smoke and fire are mere representations of the burning within of life and all that is.
Masterful is the art of becoming
Over and over again
New...
Where lies the dawn when the dawn is not what it seems?
Where is it that the wind blows and the ribbons fly to spin only to intertwine becoming one? ~ Maggie ~ Penned on 3/20/09 @ 7:35 p.m. EST
Having not spied the moon, I looked across the four corners searching it out only to find the hollow glow of fictitious lumination seeming like water drops on a solidly painted black water colored work. Haze screaming in not so violet rays that decay transfer, but what if...
I am looking for the grandma--seeing the smoke and sparks ribbon their way up into the new night and I am thought of. Yes. A gift from a sweet woman arrives warm and with warmth of heart and contents. Also too comes the gift of healing. I can breath better and my mouth is not as taunt due to swelling. To the left he drew it out and of the right he healed.
Speaking to the wind and calling to the moon...love is... ~ Maggie
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