Seeds sprouting

Scott Bauer / Photo courtesy of USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service.

I dream of them. Seeds bursting open, green tendrils snaking forth, wrapping around my fingers, urging me to write.

Waking up, I look at my hands, wondering why they feel like they are still bound yet I do not see anything but my skin, still flushed and creased from my fights with my pillows.

To manage the growth of my garden, I must honor the rhythms that Nature is drumming onto me, via the wind, the rain and the sun.

If only Time was so agreeable. I find myself tugging on the robes of Chronos, telling him to just pause, stand still and give me a few more minutes, just a few!

He looks over his shoulder and laughs. “I’m Chronos, he says merrily, with a deep baritone. “You might want to talk to Kairos and see if he can do something for you!”

I’m heeding his advice. After all, who can argue with Time?






A few moments of silence

Sitting across the man-the skinny one with the cheap shoes-who hops on the train exactly at 5:02. The stop is near the starting point, so he is on time, like the driver who is anxious to get rid of us all and settle like a beloved blanket in front of his television.

Clearing my throat. Saying to the guy, as he stands, “Your eyes are clear and cold. Wish you could take that and spread it, share it with some of the guys I know.”

He is startled then amused. As the train leaves him on the platform, his eyes warm, a just bit, in his confusion.

Later, I think of him. As the lamb loses its hold on the present and crosses over into stillness, it screams.

I wonder if my eyes are as cold as his, that man on train, with life spilling past my fingers, leaving puddles of memories and dreams. Or confused, as the blood and stink  burn my nose.