There’s a song, a whisper that slowly crescendos, laying flat against itself while quietly dancing in between its own notes. Often, so subtle and gentle, we become the very thing we aspire to be. We get to be the notes and the in-between-ness of everything all at the same time.
A rose simply remembered doesn’t quite intend well. She’s not fragile, nor do her petals dictate to the sun. She exists within the notes of every concerto, but also she carries the notes in between that often begin with a whisper. See, a rose remembered is never simply remembered, as she is created. A rose remembered only knows of itself in this way.
Every so often, we decide to let caution flail, dance in between the notes, and precariously allow the sun to wipe away the rain’s desert stain. We, as they say, are in the wind, but unlike most things, you and I get to also become the wind.
Let’s chase the moon, upside-down and through the layers, letting fate decide what to do with our hands, letting them dance like the sun does after she’s figured out the necessary steps in waking us up. Let’s chase the moon, and decide where our feet touch, allowing the sandy pieces to assemble like ants do after a great feast. We’re here, figuring all of this out, and when the moon has slowed down, let’s bring her into our proximity like the Gods do before an afternoon rain shower.
In all of the wisdom that saunters in between the semicolons, and the layers of words that describe us, I get stuck reading the lines where the poet forgets he has an audience. I get lost in the characters that dance like a summer breeze does after a quick dampening. See, we’re much better that we think, so let all these poets linger in the space in between the in betweens. We’re just getting started.