Sometimes life leaves you wordless. You drift in obligations or little multiplied tasks. You grasp for every syllable. You slide through the mud of lost words. Until you sit with yourself and listen. Your heart still beats. You pick up your pen and write your name. One word. The beginning of all that was lost.
The mystic blackforest
The sky threw a shroud
Too flimsy to cover it all
The colourful tree tops
That root in brooked valleys
Thread autumn to grey-cold
The gust of wind-strewn
Time-worm ochre, sienna
Tinged sap and wine
This is the fabric of fairy-tales
There are subtle signs of winter breathing his last breath for this cycle. Some go by calendar, by moon, by folklore or by the lengthening of days.
Some say winter is coming in any season.
Antarctica is covered in ice and snow never to loose most of its cap.
The globe is frost in relations, fire in war. World leaders struggle in winter minds of eternal frost and one might think spring will never be the same again. Human minds will never be just lead by words. Appearances and guises of the mind lead to believe. Truth is true or twisted. Alternative was once organic. Now it is fiction. Will we ever shed our winter minds to admire snow drops, blue bells and daffodils again? It seems naïve to even wish such a thing. And yet, nature helps us cope with changes. It gives us hope to find other human beings believing in the future. Beyond all human machinations there is another world awaiting where love is not just a word. We live in a vast galaxy hoping to be somehow held by divine intervention .