what flowers will flower

The Ferryman takes my hand, makes a hammock of his body, holds and enfolds me. All around, the turbulence continues. Within his embrace my light shines.

I cannot know what it might mean to others. Only that it is. It is my job to maintain it. To tend that light.

I return to listening. First to the rush and beat of my own blood. Then to the air around me. The voices singing. Listen.

Listen.

What flowers will flower through all the hard and compact. Look for the flame of stalk and bloom, the delicate scent that softens everything.

OOO

This entry was posted in Divine Light, dreaming, Ferryman. Bookmark the permalink.

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