This Morning
The dust motes drift languidly Like they have nowhere to be.
A diagonal shape crawls across the wall, Intangible, abstract, living art. So I cup my hands and capture a handful Gold glows and splashes red and yellow. This fountain of wonder spills endlessly, A treasure beyond comprehension. All the while the melody of her voice Bubbles easily about nothing & everything. Moments common to all men, Mine, framed by loyalty and faithfulness. And it dawns on me how my wealth Outshines even that of Solomon.
Some days you wake up and the world is magical. Other days, it’s mundane. Every one is a gift though. Some you just love from the moment of pre-consciousness and nothing can dim the light coming from you. If not, it’s the kind of day that you’ve been given but you already have that day, or it’s an ugly sweater of a day… well, there is good in those as well. We just have to look a little harder.
And the truth is, good, bad or other: No day is as golden (or not) in its moment as it is in memory. Time has a way of gilding things so that from a distance they all look like treasures if we get the light just right.
It is not, after all, your state of being, it is your state of mind.
Go forth you moonbeam and light someone’s life. It doesn’t matter if the source of your energy is a nuclear reactor or a dusty mirror, everyone loves light.