Good and true mornings in whispers of wind’s message that all the world changes regardless of our inclination, participation or acquiescence. In fault the bridge to understanding remembers nothing but the scratches of our memories. Hearts and tomes of recall traced over with older fingers and minds that have seen more winters. Receptive days and lies told to massage reason bring to close the friends and pathways we have plundered. The farm smells of planting and Earth while the bugs crawl, bees buzz and children look for some new wonder to play with. Remorse escapes as I seek to work with the consistent whose taint has not fallen upon the August early moon. Those of heart swept up in joy of promise, hope and everlasting.

To them the fight is easy. Paramount not given to inflated understanding or reason denying the participation of the Mighty Hands that made time for our purpose. Closed are the windows through which our papers flurried. Done enough for this lifetime as not every issue was meant for my completion. Spoken unto my frustrated dreams apologizing for my leaving. There will come another who will help from here on in. This is not the day of my disclosure nor the time of my miracles unfurled. But my days of flags blown toward the mounting spirit of the sun where dreams crack lose and hope finds good soil in purchase. I am not the solution to this equation. Nor seeker of greater things without pliability of sanction.

Fixation upon results that were never meant to come this season but many moons into the future. A fateful thing to be measured by laws I’ve always broken. In exception of my pride remain vulnerable to the moments that catch me up in time’s open hand. Brought to pastures of my own design, filled with reason that escapes the boundaries of reason. Asked once to dance and twice to marshal moments so bleak to turn stomach green and eye averted to brighter days. Things are not always as they appear in the scripts of our willingness. Looking to truth is not conclusion but beginning. In the depth of purport and inclination we find the resolve to fight or run away. This is the day upon which I have made my claim to success of failures written about my passing.

Into conquest of the holy realms of action. The mirror holds its power to see within. Including all of the evidence and sadness. My heart is sodden with the pain that cannot be staunched or stemmed even by love but must be coddled forever as infant. We frequent the upset of the measure, given by a hand that understands provision and perfection. Things to which my mind wanders without recall or clarity. The folds of folly call my name in kinship. Hoping that I too will plant my verdant hope in the shortness and breath of thoughts and memories patent. Feckless and eager to make miles of adoration my victim I forget the Love that’s given and march on to those thing that mattered little to cause of all mankind.