A world of words inside my soul; how can I explain it? All the words I know can’t come close, all the pretty prose and turns of phrase are useless.

Can you translate the whispers of the deep into spoken words? Can any amount of music or painting come close to revealing true beauty? Can the glory of the sun compare to the essence behind the sun, to the lifeblood which gives it its glory? Can a foggy mirror produce the same clarity as the thing it reflects? Does the moon shine as brightly as the sun, whose light she mirrors? Sing, my soul, and speak, my mouth, although all falls short of God, although all falls short of the depth of feeling. Though I fall short, still I give my all.


Wind in the Blood

The summer wind howls in the dark. I haven’t switched on the lights yet. The wind seems to sweep through the glass of the windows, immune to man made barriers. I move to the sliding door, and hesitate, watching as the wind swings the trees around easily, with power. Then I open the door. I spread my arms wide. The cold wind rips through me, as though I have no body and am only soul. The dusk is dark gray and fading, and it’s just me and the wind. We breathe. We dance. We talk. We are alive beneath the steadily becoming stars.