Great poets write of wastelands and despair, of the constant-dwelling angst that haunts their souls, say the scholars. Not I.
I say joy — I say passion — I say love — The bursting boasting glee that dares to run where artists may plod — that cries fire and foul to the dark lords of the ego —
when I see a white-tailed deer step into the evening spotlight and catch my breath — the faltering fawn steps into the softening sunset — I laugh, and delight is the only word that springs to mind —
this green world, this green woods full of life to be savored (life I tell you) to embrace and to leap into the air like a child or a spry old man who remembers enough of spryness to taunt the creaky old joints and shout love into the darkening night. This is no desert devoid of humanity, this is lush this is life this is well love —
in the warmth of a hug is the secret the comfort the reality of – of – of – it all.
In the warmth of a hug is the knowledge that all is not lost, all is waiting here — right here — you feel it even if you deny — the power of the hug unleashes the tension, softens the blow of the harsh —
all is not lost — the message from eons ago waits and it is the same message from the last 5 minutes — this is life this is love — this life is about love, not the bitterness left behind by the wearing —
at the very heart of the heart of the heart — at the very deepest place in the soul of the soul’s soul — in the most brilliant corner of the most brilliant mind’s mind’s mind — is life — is love — is passion — is hope —
I say joy, scream joy, shout joy in the life and the love and the hope. This day was grand, the next will be more.
