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With sunlight sparse, and the world dark
You shine golden and gorgeous. My spirit ascends.
The glittering glow of your brilliance touches me gently, and the long darkness ends.

When bitterness overwhelms me
I lose hope, reference, reverence, and appetite.
You are the sweetness in my mouth that dances on the tongue and makes it all right.

While there is no nourishment for body or soul,
You are the honey that fills my hive.
You see me through the long cold winter.
You sustain my vitality.
You keep me alive.
In my experience it is a rare thing to find someone who loves you for who you really are, and not for who they imagine or want you to be. Not for what you can bring to their life, or how you make them look, but for your individual nature and existence.
My husband is the only person I have ever known who I believe loves me that way, and I love him the same way right back.  
When I’m at my lowest I can remind myself that I won’t stay there, because he is here with me.
To delve involves more than the implied shove,
It incorporates the questing mind, a curiosity and a sense of purpose.
They who delve do so with more than a grain of passion,
Poets delve where gravediggers don't.
The difference being,
One puts his heart into the pursuit
Where the other only puts his back into it.
The very act of delving paints one as being worthy of regard....
And in delving one generates a curiosity
In they who observe.
Produces a curiosity as to the possible outcome.
Paints a tension between creation and destruction
Between preservation and loss.
Moves the human impulse to resist
Becoming just another transitional data point.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
Slicing into badwords' treatise .."Delve"
  May 2 Marshal Gebbie
badwords
We carved into stone —
because the earth would not remember us.
We painted onto pressed fibers —
because the river would forget.
We struck the press — metal on metal —
because a voice, once spoken, dies.
We soldered light into wire —
because even paper withers.

Each time —
a tug —
a pull —
the hand of art against the grinding stone of the world.
A desire — the human one —
to be more than a sigh against the windowpane.

And now —
now there are hands that shape words without feeling —
voices without breath —
thoughts unbothered by thinking.
The mirror has learned how to draw faces.

But I wonder —

can you teach a child to wonder,
if the hands that raise them are mirrors?
can you teach a heart to speak,
if the only language it knows is arrangement?

Can a soul be de-encoded,
once it has been filed, copied,
losslessly compressed?

And when we speak of touching earth —
grasping the real, the aching dirt under the dream —
I wonder —
have we ever truly touched it at all?
Or were we always reaching through glass?

It is easier to drift.
It is easier to let the current carry us, eyes closed,
believing the drift is the dream.

It is harder to open the eyes —
and harder still to keep them open.
It has always been harder.

Somewhere,
someone
still tries.
life has a sense of humor, we have perspectives. sometimes they align.
I was strolling the sidewalks of my small
nearest to me town, a farm and vineyard
village, an unhurried and laid-back place
home to perhaps 15,000 souls. Tree lined
streets with singing birds aplenty, spring
sun shining, not a cloud in the azure sky,
another good day to be alive.

I was whistling some made up tune,
a thing I, almost never do, but feeling
so good just compelled me to expel.

My old legs signaled a needed rest stop
and an inviting bench lay dead ahead.
I took a seat and caught my breath.

Had not noticed the other old guy
sitting upon the end of the long bench.
I waived an index finger in passive greeting
which he acknowledged with a friendly
grin and slight nodding of his chin, a
weathered Fedora jauntily resting upon his
head. He wore old jeans with red suspenders,
green plaid shirt and well-worn work boots.
An old farmer come to town, not so different
than me.

We set in silence for a few minutes, just
relaxing and taking in the scene around us.
Caught up in that pleasant moment I began
to hum a 1960s or 70s tune, after a time my
bench mate began to hum the same tune,
in perfect unison and pitch, better than mine.
We turned to one another and both smiled.

We finished our shared melody and silence
returned, all but for the singing of birds in
the trees. I stood up from the bench and as
I passed the still seated friendly gent we
performed a convivial fist bump of shared
fellowship, and never a word was needed
or spoken between us.
This small brief encounter made my day.
Another noted and shared pleasant
moment in time.
They touch
With a featherlight, brush of the fingertips.
Their prompt is a mere insinuation....
And their influence offered
As the slightest whisp of a wafting breeze.
But the impact made
Can be utterly monumental
And a driving impetus
To the receptive, creative soul
On a mission!

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
Inspired by the melodic artwork encased
in Agnes de Lod's short verse "Muses"
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