Winter Morning at Home

Pups and I line up in the morning’s stream of warmth and light. Country artist shares his loss and celebration of a loved one. Fire sputters demands for attention. Coffee swirled with fresh from the farm milk awaits.

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So long silent…

So long silent.

Though part of me aches to put words to light — those thoughts and emotions yearning to feel the sun,
another part hides in everyday shadows.

Buried by everyday – the rubble of busyness, the cacophony of electronic assaults, the paralysis of despair.

Ok, so that’s a bit of hyperbole.

I want to spend time in thought, weave thoughts into words, put forth these afghans for others to toss upon the ground for a stolen siesta, wrap up in for warmth and comfort, spread across the sand and lounge in the sun’s brilliance.

To achieve such,    I    Must     Write

for me, for you, for life. (First hyperbole, now melodrama — sounds like English 101. How trite.)

Regrettably these lofty thoughts seem contradictory to the compulsory academic writing that demands my attention and haunts me … for at least another year.

But perhaps, I will nurture this wee rebellion, this self-indulgent (or self-fulfilling, depends on one’s perspective) escape from should do.

Tapping out thoughts once more – from me to you.

(c) CMD / Creekside Whispers 2015

Whispers I

Trees grumble in the darkness as Winter blankets them in snow once more. Wind chimes gossip about Wind’s coldness.
Water whispers secrets to Creek.

Inside, we fret.
Red Dog grumbles at Scruffy Dog. Scruffy Dog growls back, but moves as requested.
Little Dog whines. I throw her toy and continue to type.

Sunday night.

 

© C.M. DeCourcey and Creekside Whispers