I take up my pen ...

... and begin: there is so much wondrous beauty here. I pass this way but briefly, these startled eyes comprehend only the merest sliver of the eternal riot of deathless pageantry.

One day is an eternity, all seasons cycle in an hour. In my blood and bone are fixed the kin, ineluctable patterns of leaf, fin, feather, fur, stone, wave, cloud, fossil. Bring on the dancing flowers, birds wheeling on the wing, sunlight vaulting through shafts of autumnal air, and silvery crescents of bashful moon streaming through my bedroom window.

I will have music, and poetry, art and craft, love and friendship. The time to grow violets, to write poetry, to live, is now.

(With gratitude to Loren Eiseley).

L.A.E.