FootprintsintheWind.com

Dark is pregnant, fertile, growing, living, moving, to-gather.

:- Doug.

At last, the hot chocolate is dark.

:- Doug.

One darkness
two find their one

:- Doug.

We find comfort in this darkness
in sweet
in bitter

:- Doug.

Dark is impenetrable, obscure, calling. Dark has aspects of fog.

:- Doug.

Inter-flowing, we are the grey cloth of our friend. Tickle-poke till you laugh!

:- Doug.

There’s a river
that flows between
words closing our sky

:- Doug.

Don’t hold back—the song
has need of the top of your
lungs. . . and the bottom

The song makes use of you as wing to traverse across generation and high valley.

:- Doug.

Who spoke? Who in shade
listens? Does either one hear?
Solitary bird

:- Doug.

Bread—as life and you and I—comes from fire.

:- Doug.

The this all there is moment is another “Greek god” of time.

:- Doug.

To write slowly and spaciously brings up to the mind?—the soul?—grey cloths not previously encountered.

:- Doug.

What is to know? To mystery, to poke mystery as if to poke holes in its veil, this is to us to know. This satisfies or must satisfy as monastery wall with a crack and a Zen view of mountains and green valley.

:- Doug.

We carry with us our individual space-paces.

:- Doug.

Consider there are ways we know one another that by-pass conscious pathways. What little I know.

:- Doug.

What would you do?

:- Doug.

O failing, flailing old man!
You have made the world
           Grey
Its only color
           The blood
Of the myriads dying
           Silently

:- Doug.

I don’t know anything
nothing can be known
nothing sits still long enough

:- Doug.

When do things happen
that happen
in imagination?
In one time only
Or in more?

:- Doug.

Last time I grew a beard it had color—I no longer remember which!

:- Doug.

As I look on, my mind is fraying—my body too.

:- Doug.

Take in history with large gulps.

:- Doug.

We are more than one—we’re at least more-ands.

:- Doug.