rianna
Collection of what - stones, fools, books, dreams, stories?
I have no need of these things. For what is time but a passing collection of memories and experiences?
There are things I do collect, yes. Stories - experiences, dreams, memories.
And in my hollow shell that breaks, they leak behind me in a wave of molten rivers, pouring.
I feel the spark, my heart alive, brush strokes on a pale canvas, small and secure. He watches me gently, seeking my hands. Observing the stroke, commenting.
"Do you paint?"
"Not really," I respond, but I'm learning as I express - I explain. I feel him smile.
Intent was strong. Minute, hard, fierce, determined.
She was fast-paced, daring, and steady in her gaze. Arms held and taut with the bow, the cue, the tool. She moved, eyes darting, glance clear. And, poise.
Strong, dedicated, near.
She turned her back on the sun and bent towards the earth. The soil was warm, soft, clay and loam inter-spiced and dwelling. Her shoulders were touched with bronze, every hum a quietude and an understanding.
Nevertheless, she would still pray in the dying hours. The hours between light and dark, in the midst of waking dawn and quiet slumber.
I didn't know if there was a god, only that I could breathe, and there was some light, somewhere, when I looked up.