You can hear the sound of this machine working – you know you can – if you’re as old as me, and grew up in a small Midwestern town, she was an occasional reality. We heard about newfangled ways of serving others, but what we had was good enough. We understood how to fix her, simple trial and error, no fuss or awkward searching – some days a little pat on the bottom, or the sweet whisper of, “come on baby” and she’d spring to life. I smile because she was a dinosaur in the 80s, yet we were proud. Seems there is still plenty of good happening right here, if you’ll allow it.
what is time without a watchful eye, til color fades, we mustn’t gray tones allow hope say it is so, dear one. how is it my hands feel the road and its bumps, while tires roll atop – proof we’ve been here before and what a journey it was. clouds become pillows, for murmurs under the sheets, and the rain in the distance a melody I remember and cherish, please believe. today is full of beauty, I smirk yet again. passionate in the ordinary I shall remain, and glimpses of tomorrows shall nudge me forward, across the plains.
as our sun sets I reach for you a hint please, if even this exists. why would I question your strength surrounds me the wind becomes your touch the geese flying behind me speak the words I long to hear yet, in a language I cannot understand. my eyes settle on tangerine hues as my world settles in for the night. I sigh good evening, my love, where have you been and where shall we go?
Our minds are consumed with a legion of details. Where to begin deemed obvious by most, if you could feel the pulse; a quickened heartbeat, you’d know there’s no recovery. We’re past all that, bits too forgone to consider, the beauty lies, quite perfectly just beyond and your hands belong there.