I had a little existential crisis yesterday, feeling so overwhelmed by love and (lots of) people and food, and then a little old homeless woman hawking sparkling things approached us at the gas station. We didn't help her. We should have.
The Old Words
This is hard to say Simply, because the words Have grown so old together: Lips and eyes and tears, Touch and fingers And love, out of love's language, Are hard and smooth as stones Laid bare in a streambed, Not failing or fading Like the halting speech of the body Which will turn too suddenly To ominous silence, But like your lips and mine Slow to separate, our fingers Reluctant to come apart, Our eyes and their slow tears Reviving like these words Springing to life again And again, taken to heart, To touch, love, to begin.
I am a mama, Certified Professional Midwife, dancer/choreographer, gardener, photographer-in-progress, collector, yogi, and lover of the quirky/wild/wierd/wonderful. Myself, two daughters, one dog, two rats, two hamsters, and an ever-changing number of fish reside in an old farmhouse on two limestone-ridden acres in the Hill Country of Central Texas.
My irrational obsessions include: bright blue borage flowers, embroidered pillows, tunics, vintage tablecloths, shoe lasts, rusted iron, my daughter's smile, and the sunshine on my face.