To create is to breathe is to let loose a thought a prayer into the winds of time.

I pray now and ask for such grace as might be given one who longs to pen words that point to farther glories and future songs. I pull up my small kayak to the shore and jump out, wetting my shorts in the process. I wade to the shore as I heave the kayak aside me. Do you see the sun setting over the wind-blown palms? It shall be dark soon, this I know. But for now, there is still light to see by. And enough light to even scribble a few words before their memory puffs away. Once written, the pages shall be kissed and sealed. I will then trudge up the dunes to approach the house that lays on the other side. Perhaps dinner shall be waiting, a simmering pot of tomato sauce perhaps, scents of oregano and parsley when I open up the kitchen door. For now though, in the last glimmerings of summer’s sun, I pen what my muse whispers in my ear and I wonder if the words tomorrow will look as good as they sound now. Who can say, who can say. I’ll let future me be the judge. For now, I breathe deep of wood-smoke and smile in repose. If one looked at me now, they’d see green eyes shimmering in the light of heaven’s touch. I have no other longing this night than what I whisper now under my breath. There are some myths that are true, do you know?