I sat on the bench to rest
Yet what I saw was the best
He was the wind, while she was the land
Blowing down on to her, a soft trickling air
The grass move joyfully, while the trees danced with care
This graceful romance was, but a thrill to see
I too felt the cooling soft air flowing around me
Her loving embrace seen through the dancing leaves as they fell
Throughout this whole sensation, the song of love whistled through the old willow tree
Pushing a little yellow bell
It was meant to be
Such passion, such beauty
This is, what I see
About the Creator
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KEEPING THE DOOR OPEN
Author’s Note The door matters because creativity does not force its way in. It arrives when something in us is willing. Keeping the door open is not about producing more or proving anything. It is about choosing presence over protection, curiosity over control. It is a practice of staying available to what wants to be known, felt, or expressed. There were seasons when closing the door felt safer. And seasons when forgetting it existed cost me more. This manifesto is not a demand—it is an invitation. A reminder that imagination is one of the ways we remain in relationship with ourselves. The door is still here. So am I. — Flower InBloom
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Evening has given way to night. Gently, I settle next to you on the comfortable, old love seat and reach for your hand. You snatch it away, again. It cuts me to the quick, but I hide the pain, understanding that the reaction is but part of your demented state. Since the accident, your presence here in our cozy home has been clouded by a haze I can't see. Nevertheless, I feel the frigidity of your expressions and it serves as an excruciating reminder of the immeasurable distance between us.
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I've Just Realized
The President doesn't understand music. There. It felt very good to write that; it's some thing I just realized today. Oh , yes; he plays it. He TRUMPets it in rallies and meetings, pumps it across the airwaves when he gathers up our minutes waiting for his late arrival.
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