Lessons in Listening

The sound of my feet on new pavement, on old pavement. The sound I see in the movement of fountaingrasses and dancing reeds; of yellowing leaves swimming through the air, still married to their branches. The people about me with their thoughts winking through their eyes, through the way they walk, swing arms, hold on, tightly, to bags, run fingers through hair. Clouds move softly above spelling: F R E E. 

My feet on the stairs to home, on the stairs to work, on the stairs to do groceries, on the stairs for a walk, on the stairs, just on those familiarly unfamiliar gray stairs. Mother opening the door, her tired feet thudding the kitchen floor.

That hymn the moon serenades my eyes with.
The whispers of love steaming from hearts.
And the sun’s ongoing exhibition entitled “All is Good : Good is All.”

The man who walked through the door, looked back and tried to come back to
open it for me.

I hear beauty entangled with love; 
their caresses making songs of luck. 
They say we––You and I––are very lucky.


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