These are out in the blog world somewhere in different places seen, as comments on reflection while reading a post. A little challenge, if you can find any of the original posts, share with the writer your thoughts about their original post. These are just from my ordinary thoughts in their comment sections.
Some stories pass down through the narrow lanes of life, and memories, to find at lanes end, is not an end, but the places where the wildflowers grow beneath the light warm summer rains, as they dance in the soft passing of the breeze
Where the trees unfurl their leaves by the water’s edge, where the boats of plenty, gather on the ebbing tide. You can hear her song, A voice to the water’s music, as she sits upon the sun drenched earth, Penning lines clothed in a watered silk verse, While small breezes swirl their dance just beyond her feet, Where the final page, it catches on the wind, Taking flight lifting up above the rippling air, Out across the water as a sail to the sun, Her giving chase as her feet stumble through the water, To catch the paper sail as she slips beneath the blue, Holding high aloft her words to the morning weather, When her feet raise her up above her reflection, Clung close to by the liquid blue, To wade her way to the warmth of shore, Once more to pen, rest, wait to dry, a few final words to the morning’s rays
As the squall breaks, opening its voice before your half rigged sails, where often in the places buckled thoughts fill your mind to make for port, a small few of we seek to cut decisively a windward journey, to set their sails full, to seek, to find, a free and open sea beyond continental reef breaks, a break which roars as it crashes across the bows, and deck.
Devastation of a memory, waking up in the bright glow. Wanting to fly from this place of everything, perhaps I should pause to write a side note. Spiraling out of control, the trees are spinning deep through my soul. Spiraling out of control, the trees they are ac-cel-e-rating. Can a memory be wrong, if it’s yours to ponder on. When it filters through slowed lost time, or does that mean there’s been a twist of fates. A sharing of a memory, before it’s long too late. To share the way it can be, a conversation within a memory… A bird in flight, with those watching over..