Sometimes viewed as wrinkles,
Getting ready to become a crease,
And in need of immediate ironing.
Let them be,
These natural folds in a life,
Draping a path which shows who I am,
And how I wear it.
For folds are my history and my present day.
Motionless, she stands amongst the flowers,
Having picked them earlier to bring to her beloved.
Waiting now for a reaction,
And a soft, sandstone gaze,
Fixes our attention.
It is what the artist intended.
Not another forward looking distraction,
Determining what to plan, or change.
Or another look in the rear view,
Seeing what might have been,
In the mirror of regret.
Let me just land here, now.
And see clearly what is relevant.
That is …. conversing, feeling, seeing you.
Never sure of the meanderings,
The mind takes us places we cannot control,
For thoughts are random or not,
Blistering the skin sometimes,
Another a wondrous consolation.
Lord, let them pass,
Like a ship going out to sea.
Is it me following the stream,
Or did the stream come to me?
Me and my friends see it go by each day,
And yet stay still.
A both/and stream.
Sometimes full of water, spilling onto our trunks,
But always providing nourishment,
Spilling hidden water reaching the deepest roots.
I will stand and follow.
Becoming a both/and tree.