Identity, they say, Determines quality. Even says Socrates, “Knowing thyself brings ease.”
I hear a kindly voice, “Imagery so lovely, Thou meter is sublime. May I linger near your rhyme?”
How shall I know myself? Only to listen to The one who etched me on Thin, paper filament.
My poet said she penned me With careful thought in mind. She tells me who I am, Her dearest love divine.
THURSDAY
Something strange happened today. I understood the trees. When each leaf gently fell among the rustling leaves, I leaned in closely and heard a whisper, “Let go.”
“Let go?” I replied.
“Let go.”
Then, another leaf landed and the soft whisper murmured, “Surrender to Winter.”
“To Winter?” I asked.
“Yes,” it answered. “Spring will come.”
“Spring?”
“Yes. Spring brings life.”
I slowly exhaled, “Let go.”
Another leaf fell.
“Surrender.”
And another fell.
“Let go.”
Today I heard the language of the trees.
Strange.
SATURDAY
Something strange happened today. I understood the hawk’s cry. He shouted, “Look up!”
So I did. He was right. I needed to look up. I don’t know how long my head had been down. I didn’t even know I had so much pressure building in my head until the hawk called me to lift up my eyes. What an astonishing relief! The light awakened me and life began coursing through my veins.
Today I heard the language of the hawk.
Strange.
SUNDAY
Nothing strange happened today. No tree spoke. No hawk cried. All was quiet.
I listened. But I only heard the silence.
I let go.
I looked up.
Today I heard the language of the silence.
Strange.
Fran keeps a clean house; she’s germaphobic. What’s ironic is her job. She drives a garbage truck AND she is the one who throws the trash in the back of the truck. In fact, she’s so efficient; she drives the truck, hops out to get the trash and hops back in to drive to the next stop. Fit as a fiddle—that’s Fran! A one woman show.
