Tags
becoming, dreams, fearless, forgiveness, grace, gravel roads, life, living, love, old maps, postmark, reason, relationship, spirit, strength, truth, understanding, wandering
of scattered few
a picture book –
and verses understood
was meaning more than e’er
the pen could find
what eloquence decided
by the poet to the page –
rhyme
when none would work
to speak my mind
of messages I left alone
and roads
forever winding –
willed me back into the ways
I was
fragile
as a falling leaf
tender as a tear
wandering o’er seasons
I was love
were not for this
these souvenirs
of mystery and minding
touch almost forgotten
by my skin
saved a place
for every year
breath as breath immortal
here am I –
and getting used
to knowing you
again
tornadoday 
… each word a souvenir, a flower braided into her hair. These the treasures she keeps, in a box beneath her bed. Memories of a life that lives, still, in another time, this the mystery of words, in them the sanctity of life; that the skin will ever know the touch, the eyes will e’er recall the color of autumn, nose the color of the breeze still passing it’s time by the firm wood where she still sits, her faith unshaken … with her words …
Would that the stars make room for the blossoms, or webs take hold of the dreams. Love bears us safely from life (began life) and there, to the edges, my soul resonates. Thank you, dearest Peter, for your understanding and insight. ~ Love ever, Bobbie
Ah, memories, what are they but the precious treasures that only we can hold. This had a really nice, soft and wistful feel to it.
~xo~
Paul
Ahhhh, but more, they are pages imprinted to our soul. Were need, our life could be recreated in the linking of moments one to another. Thank you so much, Paul. ~ Love, Bobbie
And yet your words capture the speechlessness and awe so beautifully.
Thank you, Dee……….. In truth, the words do all the work; I just show up with paper and pen. 😉 Thank you. ~ Love always, Bobbie