One Single Day

Writing what wants to be written today...

Outside the window is a wall, built with the hands of a man, over one hundred years ago. Conifer trees with their branches bent into seats drip with their seeds. Spin up to space and this is on repeat. Greens and blues intermingling. Love in so many beating hearts.

The touch of one human to another, replicated a thousand-fold every single day. Bodies sleeping next to each other, now. Complete trust in the most vulnerable moments.

Hearts opening, not a single one of them, not a single one that doesn’t desire love. No exceptions.

Shapes of grey in the depths of the waters, twisting, turning, playing, jumping. The eyes of a dog, mirror to the soul, pure love in brown puddles. Hope.

Smoke of souls weaving back generations and reaching forward with fingers that dissolve into the unknown, grey interlaced with turquoise. Carrying stories from past humans to those not yet born.

The blessings of being One. The beauty of being many. Spirals of mother-of-pearl scales, twisting into a tight knot.

Bands of sunlight on café table tops catch the steam of coffee. One woman passes a notepad to show her friend a poem she has written. It makes her cry, big gobs of mascara onto the page. She looks up and she is changed.

Strong muscles and sleek body moves through the river, heading unswervingly home.

The sharp intake of breath as the vast expanse of the sky sends light into the bones, into the sinews and every cell. Luminesce.

Paving stones mismatched, laid by the hands of humans who do not have straight corners. Warm candlelit rooms with the smell of stout for people to gather and share sad stories and laugh with their bellies. Those whose job it is to conjure street names into their minds and leave their legacy for the next thousand years.

Bellies of sharks, seen from below with awe, starfish glimmers. Contrail arrows, thousands of stories never told. Worms and beetles in dampness, never once seeing the light. Being.

Waves of warmth from the right shoulder to the left hip, where all the babies were carried and knew they were safe.

Small yellow flowers hand-painted by fairies are works of art attracting bumble bee inspectors, examining each carefully and marking out of ten before moving to the next.

Aliveness in a million corners.

All in one single day.