Ripples of Light

It’s cold, just now, as the evening starts its piquant quiet roll into the quickening of night.

Even the clouds are first crisp, then wispy, rippling into pink, lilac, the greying dark.

One reminds me of petroglyphs in the US south west, a man-bird leaning into the sky.

Perhaps a man who has made himself into a kind of self-appointed God in this world, a dictator of one sort or another, will topple in the next weeks or so.

Or it could be a reminder: let the heart soar, dream the world, align with the stars, some place of origin, another of future, the one and the other, orbiting, sparkling the air, rippling into light.

About bydda88

I love poetry, writing, especially writing as healing, as touching the sacred, being touched. And place, places dreaming us, us them. Coasts, rivers, canyons; the ordinary things too, the small things, gestures that reach out.
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