#8-8-23

Fava waits patiently for a treat while brother Mung exhibits a guilty conscience. Think Mom will notice he is back in line for seconds?

The dry earth shows its prints in the cracks of the dark clay. Miraculous debacle, be the one to guide me. May that which is not reside in the modem of the crucible. Apply fire and you may see form become formless. The eyes become weary of the light. Rest, cease to remain, become heavy with the absent sight. The blackened fog shall surely lay your leaded head to rest softly and smoothly upon the whetstone. You rock, back and forth like the woodsman’s blade. Each aching to meet one another within the exquisite, piercing talons of their immortal god.

Be still child. Be still. Remaining is not remembrance. Each thought is simply that which has been plucked from the feathers of its aeon. Praise be or praise I see.

Praise my best with planted knee.

To the dawning of the day and night.

Both resemble final sight.

Becoming the fog of an amber haze.

All belongs to depths of daze.

Mom means being safe.

Mom means love.

Playing with Adzuki