The moon of my life.
The moon of my life becomes lost in the sun of your love. That was the ending
that is also a beginning. Me and my problems become all silence and song when I am with you. This is the simple way.
Once I was a river whose current was blocked by a fallen tree. Debris collected. Bits of trash, memories of old hurts, that strange foam that comes from standing still in the swirling of concepts for to long.
You are a woodsman. I am in love with your saw.
At first we are a playground, the optimism of young colts; there is no antonym to playground – except suffering. If you are not full of hope when you are young then something is wrong inside your heart.
In the bottom of a sewing kit there slowly grows a jumble of cut threads impossibly knotted. If you still believe the stories of this world when you are old then something is wrong inside your head.
You are the seamstress who sews heart and head into whole cloth.
Words just come out of my mouth, I have no idea what they will be - just as the open window has no idea what will fly through. Sometimes encouraging, sometimes not, sometimes an open sky, sometimes a stormy sea.
You are a dictionary of words - every one of them untouched by life’s hopes and fears. You are a thesaurus wherein every word becomes the synonym of joy. You are the unmaker of moody weather – a perpetual sky of wisdom love.
The moon seems to wax and wane. In reality its wholeness is only you.'