Finding the Gentle Arc

There is no time like this time…

…when writings fall from walls…when the walk up the shorter hill is longer by every footstep yard…where words unspoken are best heard than hidden.  And I, as families gather, am just a traveller who spends time here and there. There are no blue-sky pictures today just old wise and wizened sometime strangers who find hope (and hopelessness) with each cool beat of life. This day a leaf cascades with water finding sons of daughters in the dew…the daughters of sons amidst the heather.

One life’s helping hand for the many…with each breath and after…they remain here…amongst each birdsong call. To hear of one so travelled…who stopped as someone’s angel…who found happiness just in the finding. I belong here more than ever as voices once known well ring true…their hand has done their angel guidance atop this wildwood hilltop.

There is not one place that I call home that isn’t every field, window, and wall. Though the writing has fallen we find words in the harvest of place and experience. This home…that home…elder and younger…how letting go became both strategy and disabler…reaping our words from the flail…built walls tumble as water finds a course amongst bramble and crevice of the hillside. The gentle arc on which we glide…this day to the next…angel hands among us to find our way home.

And until we meet again…