Muddy Angels

There is a deliciousness in the bruised clouds, sewn through with silver, hanging low over the eastern horizon. 

My body is tired, my mind quiet. My heart waiting for the first droplets of rain to fall.

I am still. 

I am hypnotized by love, refracted and changed by the power in simply being whole. 

I am prone to weakness but I shall speak my mind inside and hold the flame high, no matter how it gutters.

I am alive, dancing in the reflection of those lively eyes.

Seen and loved is home to me. 

And in the quiet recess of my mind, behind the shadows left behind, lurk memories and hopes still to young or perhaps too old to stand in the light. They whimper and laugh, they dance in circles and skip and fall on train tracks running north. 

It is still so dark, these words and pictures, and I wonder if I cling to the shadows like curtains, running from the dazzling delight of love, of sun and of the unrestrained goodness of life.

I hope I am not hopeless in my desire for completion. 

I am astounded by what the muddy- angels say around me, rasped in low voices over steaming cups of coffe and sung from roof tops in the shadows of night.  I am searching for a kind of peace, that I want so badly to put all my faith in, I have been searching so wildly, but perhaps it is time to wait for it to return to me, like a faithful dog out of the dark frame of the night.