taking flight

You are tired,

(I think)

Of the always puzzle of living and doing;

And so am I.

Come with me, then,

And we'll leave it far and far away—

(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of,

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break, and—

Just tired.

So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,

And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows,

And, if you like,

The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!

I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,

That floats forever and a day;

I'll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probable stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,

Until I find the Only Flower,

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea.

-e.e. cummings

the nearing-end of december:
fleeing the sorrow of this year

entering into true-pure-love-and-care

growing in good graces and the knowledge of impermanence 

watching grin upon grin in the low light, holding each one close to my heart

feeling ukulele tunes down past the soles of my shoes

reckless rides in a big box van and a million walks treading dirt and dust

reconciling with the past and learning to appreciate still, more, always the present

hands and hugs and unforeseen warmth
films which reach down deep and pull the truth into plain sight
less time squandered, less time spent in regret

these moments are all we have

prints c/o National Media Museum