Grey skies, restless trees, season changeover rustling through the air.  Soon it will be time for gloves.  Clouds may soon descend on us.  Rain has all night raked the gravel clean of prints.

Sometimes the spirit trumps the body, taking the hand from the table.  The cooing trees.  The wind blows up her leaves revealing the white underskirts and fluttering the curtains on the windows inside my heart.

Sometimes the body trumps the spirit.  The ground has soaked up the night-long rain, hardly wet, no mud.  The forest soaks up all tears.

Let the wind make slow music through me, a sound garden, to and for the Presences as it winds through my life’s path.  Briar canyons, golden fields.  Childhood memories are only mine now.  All the stories are in my mind, hinted by a few worn photos. 

This is feeling human, the facts aren’t really material.  Heart is trump today.