The sea rushes in
But quietly in the night
To make her mark
And state her limits.
The moon has asked this of her
And she will comply
But only this far;
Inside the line, she says
I will come again
But until then
You may stand over there
And be assured of warmth
From the source of all you know.
All lines are real
At least in our heads
And sometimes around our feet
In the regular beat
Of her sandy heart.
Rocks walls are the wise old shamans of architecture, marking the land with tumbled
precision, held together with gravity and good sense. In my wanderings I would often come across such sturdy fences, so quiet and stable that the individual stones become covered in moss, almost as if the granite is to be transmuted into emerald. These walls have seen history and could no doubt tell us things about our world, of the whirling sun and stars, and of the crafty fox and sedentary mole. Our story is there too if we look closely into the warm and dusty cracks.
Three eggs in a nest, sky blue perfect and brimming with the promise of life. I 
wonder if this color was in some sense chosen in a rebellious moment, defying the conventional rules of camouflage and flaunting azure shades like targets on the moon. Three seems like the right number – triangular and solid — balanced against the random winds of fate. On the day these eggs hatch the cycle renews, and the future awaits more blue eggs in a brown nest, a circadian portrait in primary colors.
These wooden spans used to scare me as I looked over the edge at the rocky depths. The wooden planks seem so flimsy, what with gravity and all urgently calling your name. And in the movies these things ALWAYS break and drop dozens of unfortunates into the gorge below, their cries cut short by distance and churn. But once you overcome your clearly overactive imagination, the hollow sound of your steps is a harbinger of security; of safe passage over the yawning air.
On those cold days in late fall, with winter moving in, a simple bowl of vegetable soup keeps the winds at bay. As a boy I remember coming inside and smelling the soup being prepared. The memories mean home to me, even after all the seasons that have come and gone and come again.
If you look closely at the world it is revealed in ways both beautiful and unexpected. The first time you see the cells of an onion magnified with new eyes, the inner structures spring into focus — begging you to ask: “What are those dark spots like storms on Jupiter, or the periods at the foot of question marks?” Once asked, you are drawn into cellular mysteries which, with each telling, open the book into what it is to be alive and growing, under the earth.
whoisfenton 