Each fraction of the wheel’s rim
allowed its turn, in turn,
communion with the earth

Each lesson and lesion applied
to flesh in its moment, regardless
of the fabric’s wllingness to endure the abrasion

Slow sowing,
slow reaping,
each in season.

My mind’s throttle seems unfamiliar
with a paced discovery, floating ascension
or sinking decline, yet curiously engaged

Simply, I send the letters and the words,
I speak them with integrity to the needs,
and I sift through the echoes, panning patiently for silver

Slow filling,
slow spilling,
each in measure.

This entry was posted in connections, growth, relationships, spirit, trust and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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