FootprintsintheWind.com

Darkness
in the flavor
of the stew
portends blending
of ingredients
us
flavors aromas textures rising

:- Doug.

Let’s not let
his hate
toward us
push us
into hate of
anyone
rather to curiosity

:- Doug.

When one coming near
is close (a grandchild, say)
why do I fear
to exercise my fullest
curiosity?

:- Doug.

Wind comes when higher and lower pressure come near. It takes the gradient, flows down, equalizes, finds level, seeks out differences, and so animates. Spirit moves, now more slowly, with deliberation, concealing shapes, its edges shaped by them, large and so small as to be un-seeable. Wind leads on to wind.

:- Doug.

The future is dark;
It is ever rich

:- Doug.

I chose to name my stroke “Blessing.” It is good for me. I take it as part of my life—integral to me, same as the day after a child is born, the new parents cannot imagine, cannot remember, a time they were not a three. Indeed, in some real way perhaps, they were always on that trajectory. So I have always been headed for my stroke, and my life after. And you and your friend have always been leaning into one another.

:- Doug.

We accept our conversations, and will go on wandering, wondering, until they end.

:- Doug.

This last hot chocolate is not the end of the exploration, not the end of our hot chocolate, but the beginning—see how the trail curves off into the great forest?

:- Doug.

Yet this is dark for us—until we bring it more to our awareness.

:- Doug.

Perhaps the dark—but that would be too easy.

:- Doug.

Have I glimpsed the secret of hot chocolate, these conversations? I concede: No.

:- Doug.

What is it brings us forth to our home? Brings us with another? Delights, elates, buoys, lifts, gratulates, thrills, pierces, enlivens?

:- Doug.

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.