As bears from hibernation mode we shed the layers of the winter chill, for summer had arrived with total confidence. No more curling within our den, no more hiding in semi-darkness. Bright lit days of adventure, of forest paths and sweet berries were calling.
There was a happiness to her, not the kind that is loud and obvious, but more as early morning birdsong.
There is more to kindness than a smile, no matter its warmth. Though smiles are appreciated. There is more to kindness than an embrace, no matter its strength. Though hugs are medicine. Real kindness, you see, can't be a thing skin deep. It must be a part of our atoms, an essential element of our souls. For life is not only the good times, yet the times of challenge too. And when else do we need kindness most, but then?
My soul, you see, is a pretty poem on paper scrunched and charred. In time, with care, she will unfold again and the words will be as beautiful as they ever were.
My hope, it sat upon a butterfly of painted wing, drinking deeply of the aroma of flowers. And of its steed, she flew on in bonny fashion, rising and falling only to rise again; without insulation for the winter, nor experience of icy blasts. My hope and her were blessed companions, for one cannot sense the cold and the other requires recovery without it.
My hope, it sat upon a butterfly of painted wing, drinking deeply of the aroma of flowers. And of its steed, she flew on in bonny fashion, rising and falling only to rise again; without insulation for the winter, nor experience of icy blasts. My hope and her were blessed companions, for one cannot sense the cold and the other requires recovery without it.
Rooted in the giving earth, petals in bonny sway, the flowers grew ever more pretty in the sheltered bay of the grand oak.
The clouds that day were blue, as if I were in a cartoon world or, perhaps, as if all the oceans were up there and the sea beds were quite dry.
I wonder if the roof tiles miss the rain on these long summer days. I wonder if they miss making their together song. Or perhaps they await the tickle of bird feet and a hearth-warm breeze. Or maybe it is the variation that makes these seasons special.
It was a bonny path that chattered day and night, the free leaves upon it and their twig-attached brethren in seasonal conversation.
I won't say I love the cold rain. I won't say I love being soaked to the skin. I won't say I'm alright with how long it takes for my boots to dry. But I will say it enlivens me and awakens a part of me that slumbers in the warm and sunny weather. I will say that jumping in puddles is fun and that I'm far too old to be enjoying such things. I will say that a part of me finds a beauty in wondering how many raindrops there are and listening for them in the meditative pitter patter.
In that artistry of wool, within a fabric that told of patient hours of tip-tapping knitting needles, we dwelled within a castle within our home.
Killing innocents kills innocence and all that remains is guilt; war is not a 'catch all' excuse.
"Aha!" said the Prime Monister, "we will have the poor scrap with the destitute for scraps! We can't lose!"
Joys born of vice should never be held in equivalency with joys born of true virtue or else we create a cerebral short-circuit and confusion reigns; thus the word 'happiness' should belong only to that uplift born of loving goodness.
In war let us keep a warm heart and a cool head, remembering always the humanity of the 'othered' or else lose our own.
As they laughed at the idea of evil spirits, they were easy pickings to influence into foul deeds; happy halloween indeed.
The holly tree had to be a good foot and half taller since her planting, spreading her roots wide in the earth. It was the early autumn and so her green berries had their first blush of red. After the poor start she had, the way she arrived in the garden bare rooted and parched, that she lived at all was miracle enough.
The tree bark was an alien terrain for the wandering eye, yet more than that, a community unaware of humankind.
My giant dreams recline upon those tree tops; for in my cerebral conjurings I rest up there as if it were my bed. I lay there in titan size, head raised on upward palms, one ankle supported by the other. A canopy, a hammock, a poets' heavenly loft.
The pebbles of the mountain path, acorns green and bright, washed hither and thither in great airy waves.
The woods stood as great shadows brought to life by festive hand, as if they had been called forth from a wintry land.
We developed a skin coating that was invisible and tough, tough enough to shatter the vampire's teeth on impact.
In came a ghost, bonny and spry, a conjuring of mischief that had somehow abandoned its desire to scare.
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