to the artist of spirit

your art is the roots.

let it lie dark
and rich like the mud.

your breath
is your navigator.

show others the way through their breath
their limbs
their movements
make them like trees
make them bright as stars.

let go of “purpose.”
do it because it moves you.

someday is not your concern
for your time is now.

in time
your shallows shall swell
with the tide.

what you have so heavily resisted
shall become your bread and butter

and the heaviest burdens upon your back
shall become your ballasts.

go.
move.
it is the only way
if you are to light the way forward.

a handful of water

Time is like a handful of water slipping through your fingers. One moment your hand is full, and the next, it’s gone. Fleeting though it is, its touch is familiar, and curiosity gets the better of you. You watch it for awhile, eluding you. Feel it, cool, trickling over your skin. Listen to the tinkling of it dripping into the sink, the pond, the ocean. Only reluctantly do you turn away and return to the task of living.