The Scribble Tree

The Scribble Tree

I’m at a point where I scribble and tangle wires together. Sometimes I paint or string beads, but mostly I scribble.

Scribbling is a state of mind that allows me to idle. I’m awake and aware, prepared to flow like calligraphy, but not yet.

Not yet.

Because the pre-event horizon is a power point.

A place where the boundaries of Now, expand: tomorrow is a flash I see clearly when my eyes shift.

Or when I scribble.

So I scribbled a wire tree on a green and white stone.

And I curled up amongst its roots,

It’s strong and thirsty roots.

The Shapes Spirit Takes

I miss the particular curve of your smile

And the way your shoulders shook when you laughed.

I miss your fingerprints, rivers of spirit.

I have recordings of your voice.

I wish you were here.

There is so much I would have done differently.