Reach

forgottenmeadows

So many memories,

fall like enchanted rain,

of another time, another place…

When you held my hand, and hugged me,

cupped my little face, in your palms…

and now as I stare at the clear skies,

waiting with the deep blue ocean,

as the wind blows by, 

I hug you in my heart…

hoping, my hand will reach your soul

poetry and image copyright neha 2015 poetry and image copyright neha 2015

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1021. Life is a series of little deaths out of which life always returns. ~Charles Feidelson, Jr. 

There is something frank
and joyous and young
in the open face 
of the country.
It gives itself ungrudgingly
to the moods of the season,
holding nothing back.
~Willa Cather

Screen Shot 2015-12-29 at 6.40.47 PM.png

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It’s only two days until the end of the year. The train carrying all of this year’s comings and goings has all but run out of track, and it has been almost 10 days since we entered the season of somber gardens, short, but lengthening days, decidedly lower temperatures, and more-gray-than-blue skies. The reckless abandon of the growing seasons has yielded to winter’s, seemingly unadventurous restraint, and the countryside has been at least somewhat ravaged. The bare bones of the landscape now stand like silent sentinels over treasures buried beneath the soil where masses of autumn’s fallen have come to rest. Although the countryside appears to be wasted and barren, the soil in reality is teeming with life, life which the decaying matter warms and protects. And so it is time for us to rest and reflect on life, love, and home, whatever, whoever, and wherever that might be for you.

~The land enjoyed its sabbath rests… ~Excerpt from 2 Chronicles 36:21  ✝

**Image via Pinterest