As you smash and pace-
View your wall
Never forget your wall
We rocked our thoughts tonight
Wind was pounding
Trees even hid
Did you ever see the broken boy?
Sometimes you can still find him
Howling, screaming, eyes wide open
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017
‘The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.’ -Hemingway
For years I sat alone at night. I read Hemingway. His words helped. I turns out I wasn’t alone after all.
We remember you speaking. The yard wasn’t green. The Sun wasn’t yet too large. We wanted to imply nicely that your words weren’t much. We’d seen your last step. So our look, is a look, and a word isn’t said. Now, let us tell you, the sun did go down. We found ourselves a book. In the book were the words you’d been looking for.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017
I don’t play pretend with my son. There’s enough of that with everyone else he meets. -M. Taggart.
copyright 2017.
Did we say we hoped to live-
Promoting thoughts under eyelids-
Those stairs, see them? They are not you.
-M. Taggart
It’s always nice to revisit Emily Dickinson’s work.
The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go--Emily Dickinson. To read Emily’s full poem read the original post.
And as always, Cheers!
The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go-
A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him
Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.
Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson. 414 (1075) page 241.
Gavin, smile at that Narrow Wind. You’ll see him often and it should never ruin your mind. And though clouds truly can be mean let the debates take place and observe- Nature is not against you.
And if you’re able to catch the snow flake, do. Smile and let the rest wonder.
It’s a chilly October day and you are just 34 days old in this picture.
As a child we wanted rocks. They told us to be. We wanted to know more, but the rocks only spoke one line. We pilled rocks into our pockets. We felt them against our legs as we walked. When we ran, they didn’t mind. Every day we asked a rock, any rock, what it meant to be. We watched our shadow at noon. The sun pushed. The oil from the rocks stuck to our feet.
-M. Taggart
