Bogging down as of late, I struggle to shake my quakes of worry. Money, mush, molding life how I’d like it to look. It trickles down our spines and into the soup below my snout, my word. I revoke this! No life of mine to pine at matters faulted, fake! in measure of the Spirit.
I detest this. It riles my insides, no measure I have been stumbling sick these past few days! I roll my arms, release. Please, I breathe, may solvents attend.
All things are fluid. qualm rolls off tongue and will evaporate, as simple as this may be true. I look to a weekend of dreams, gentle grey skies and wet, wet, wet! Spring, unfolding, I look to you. To a time when harvest of our sleeping winter’s crop. Pricking its keen head through the dirt, when my woes are of a realm I truly possess and joy finds me in all places, these be the seasons of my heart.
Be such: full, strong, capable and resilient. All these linger true and unwavering, dig here, sink your soles among the mud of the land and breathe, my dear! There is no force greater.
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