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Goosebumps Greet The Fall October 1, 2011

Posted by nrhatch in Art & Photography, Mindfulness, Nature, Poetry.
41 comments

Gray tabby dozing
In the last rays of the sun
Absorbing its warmth

Another month rolls
off the presses ~ time stands not
in idle repose

The sands of time through
the fragile hour-glass flow
leaving naught behind

Bare tanned arms protest
Summer’s cool uncaring end
Goosebumps greet the fall

Aah . . . that’s better! 

Wet With Forest Dew October 1, 2011

Posted by nrhatch in Fiction, Magick & Mystery, Mindfulness.
14 comments

He rolled from bed and padded across the cold stone floor, rubbing his eyes to surface from slumber.

Gray skies and spitting rain against window pane urged him back to bed.

Soon, gentle snores greeted sputtering rain.

Wikipedia ~ Hookah Smoking Caterpillar (in Public Domain)

He next awoke at forest edge,  hunger echoing through empty caverns.

An arbitrary mushroom, sans caterpillar, beckoned.

He tasted its medicinal trail as it glided down his gullet.

Appetite sated, he relaxed.

A cool breeze passed through his skin, using pores as doors.

The air circulated within, replenishing his calm center.

His heartbeat, attuned to an invisible conductor’s baton, guided his footsteps without faltering.

He entered fully the flow of life.

Without, the silence grew.  He lost focus.  His smile melted and slipped from his face.  He searched with intent, efforts unrewarded.

The vast sea of dew-covered grass waved, without revealing a thing.

Thunder rumbled.
A bee bumbled.
His stomach grumbled.

Humbled, he tumbled back to the future and fumbled with the alarm.

He rolled from bed and padded across the cold stone floor, rubbing his eyes to surface from slumber.  Gray skies and spitting rain against window pane urged him back to bed.  Soon, gentle snores greeted sputtering rain.

Footprints wet with forest dew crossed the floor.

If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awake – Aye, what then? ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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