Prose

California Native.



We cannot hope to conquer realities we are unwilling to face. We cannot hope to live a life fulfilled, living in complaint. We must seek the golden glowed underbelly, shiny smooth, from ย moving itself against the earth. We must be willing to say, I am here and it is now, and make the best of that we can.ย 

How the dreams were then, before, of other places, distant shores and mountains inland there contained, and prairies holding all their worth unto the edge of that said earth. How the talk was then of birds on wing and flying free unto the spring that all of life had crawled out of, a watering hole in the palm of God’s glove.

This love we sought, to hold and keep, was it more to us then, for lack of sleep?ย 

Is it more to us now, wondering how it is, we will be together?



(there is more to this, I think, but I haven’t written it yet.)