The front door of my childhood home —
someone has left it standing open. Two cats, the small reclusive
calico that lives with us now and a soft-white stranger with brownish
face and paws, are inside playing. When they see me, they dash out. I
follow them and close the door. To the east beyond the yard, a
morning view of the High Sierra. I think of a painter in love with
blue, long since buried in the snow. I remember what a lover knows
and is so eager to begin — the taste of one bright apple, and
footprints where no one else has been.
7 comments:
where you take us in your morning view, through time and love, the colour of death and where others have not traveled is such a view William.
~robert
Thank you, Robert. Like you, I marvel that the concrete reality of this world is also a dream, a vapor we can run our hands through. You’ve been expressing that so well in your photographs lately.
thank you William.
very lovely, William...I seem to have been missing the odd thing here. I have too much in my stupid Reader and can't figure out how to remove anything! Good to see your words as always.
Thanks, Peter. And it’s always good to hear from you.
This is um...dreamy, really nice. Puts a lump in my throat and tear in my eye as your writings usually do... I like starting my day this way!Deb
I’m glad, Deb. Thanks. Take one dream and call me in the morning....
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