February Mornings

The soft yarn of red mittens rub against my cheek; a hollow attempt at bringing warmth to the blushing skin against the chill of February mornings. Clouds form with each breath I take, fading as quickly as they came. A rabbit must have tread across the sparkling snow, its footprints the only evidence of its midnight scamper. And those too, are beginning to fade. Sunlight sifts through the veil of trees, dappling the snowy forest floor. Glistening pools here and there trickle slowly into the stream, which snakes through the forest, the ice atop it imperceptible to one's eye. Icicles adorn the branches, preparing for a Snow Queen who will never come. A pile of nuts are strewn across the snow, perhaps dropped by a startled squirrel, frightened by the smiling moon. It needs not worry now, the moon has returned to her tranquil slumber as her brother stands vigil. He reaches his arms out towards me, but I am too far away to be enveloped in his embrace; I reach out and interlace my fingers through his instead.

Magnolia Lane

A songbird sings in the distance, soft melodies drifting over sunlit clouds. The sun is setting in the west and lavender skies blush as the evening wind whispers greetings I will never comprehend. Magnolia trees line the narrow street, their pale velvet petals drifting slowly to the ground. I am careful not to step on them; my shoes too profane to tread upon the sacred blooms. Soft, I tread quietly, soft, the petals fall, soft, the warm light begins to fade as night insects start their song.

Impression of Youth

This is not a poem.

The fervor of the night has yet to fade, 
to cease its manic buzz. 
Counting breaths like counting sheep; 
I have lost count. 
Cars race by on the highway below; 
my heart races faster than them all.
Tic toc tic toc, seconds pass like passing clouds, 
floating past the silver moon.
Shouts and laughter echo, 
in my head and in my mind,
or from upstairs?
Slow down, stop.
The world is at a standstill.
Not a sound from the window,
my mind is silent.
Rushing water, reduced to a trickle,
so are my thoughts.
A dance of bodies, a dance of souls,
is all I can remember.
All trying to taste freedom,
in one night's short hours.

Socrates on Death

From Plato's Apology

"If it is a complete lack of perception, like a dreamless sleep... If death is like this I say it is an advantage, for all eternity would then seem to be no more than a single night." 

Thought

Isn't it funny how easily children say "Let's be friends" but as people grow, saying such things get more and more difficult?

The State of Being

Time and the State of Being

   Time can never be paused, for we are always in motion. We are in a constant state of being, an inevitable, subconscious action. If we were not to be, then indeed we would do nothing, but then we too would be nothing.

The Stillness of Being

    If we could stop all purposeful actions and leave only our state of being, we would be able to see, hear, and feel, so much more. If we were to stop thinking, listening, seeking, and judging, all that would be absorbed into our minds would be everything, for the state of being itself consists of near-nothingness, like a piece of rice paper, and all would flow through naturally, effortlessly. We would be able to experience the beauty of the world as it flows through us, and though we would never be able to capture it, could we truly capture the beauty of life, of the universe, even if we tried? In the stillness of simply being, we would for once be able to forget what goes on inside of us to be aware of the beauty all around us. Indeed, we would render ourselves thoughtless for the time we are solely being, but do we really need to think and process the world to understand it, be aware of it? It is good to be deep oftentimes, but one does not need depth to understand the beauty of a weeping willow, or a dew-covered rose; they simply are beautiful. Similarly, does one need depth to understand a mother's love, to feel the warmth from the blazing eyes and cheeks of young lovers? The depth of the world would make up for the human-conjured depth we would be depriving ourselves of. If we did not try to be deep, perhaps depth would, like the rest of the world, naturally flow into us.

The Fragrance of Spring

    Rain drums its fingers steadily on the shop window. The door opens, a woman in a rain coat lets in the earthy smell of rain. The soft breeze from outside sweeps past her, swirling delicately through my hair. Resting lightly atop one's skin, cool moisture fringed with warmth and the smell of rain; this is the fragrance of Spring.
   
    However, in a city, there are no wildflowers in bloom, no puddles that reflect so clearly the sunless sky, no bed of dew-moistened grass to rest upon. No silence or space to allow one to admire the pale grey clouds that bloom as wildflowers do. There is only this fragrance to cling to, like memories telling of times long past, times when happiness did not seem so abstract.

    And so I cling to the sweet smell of Spring, already fading as the door begins to close. I cling to it as I do to my memories, for both tell of more beautiful times.