Dinner with a good friend at a local cafe Good food, friendship, a chance to talk Over certain topics I needed mulling over, needed a good ear And needed to become aware, what I now need. For so long I was loved well and part Of something dear. I was well loved, And times change. It’s okay.
A man on a white horse reined to a stop. It was you taking time to tell three strangers About the game. I learned polo on your horse long before I knew you. In a playful bet, I won, garnered A first date. Think we surprised each other Neither of us was much interested before. We were after.
On a late wintry afternoon, in a store facing The Common, lit for the holidays, I sold a fellow A brown cowboy hat. He, spoke of horses, Music, heading back to the Cape. I rushed For the bus, But missed his and years later, with humor, He would recount this lost chance of Loving me sooner.
Advent arrives trailing deep joy to most of holidays, For a smaller group, scarred by sorrow, the onset is A quieter march Marked by reminders of what is gone. I know, I do. Yet this year, more alone than ever past, I wish A different route. May my mind sift the loved memories of my Dear, Let a time each day regard gracious thoughts Of our time. For I am tired, hollowed by sorrow’s weight, Would welcome, respite of this measure, Hope for serenity.
If I stand at the marsh’s edge Hollering: Come back, come back, it’s Been too long. Would you even hear, or care? Too long I’ve been alone and you are just Gone, just gone. So I ask when, when again will I feel filled, again fine own my own? Will I ever.
I have leaned on others, who have Their own lives to live. Time for My own life. I will watch parades, paint, treasure My old and new friends, enjoy my Own time alone, Expand the love for my own life. Truly the last gift from you, to live just My own life.
Learned I no longer see clearly. And I'm done mastering the art how To live alone. Over these six years, I have run, Leaning on others as I could, even Beyond their scopes. Indeed, I have learned to live Alone. I can do it. Only now I want To learn more.
Japanese potters wisely Know repairs made to Broken clay vessels Can be done, only the lines Will ever be visible. So Choose to fill The cracks with gold, Giving shattered things new Beauty with strength.
Woke to the swoosh of murmarations Swirling through treetops, to run barefoot Through wet leaves, White nightgown clinging, hands clapping Encouragement onward all those birds in Their amazing flight. Now, window open to wind and showers, Under the old turtle blanket, cocooned in only My own warmth.
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.