Messages
What do we do with them?
On a long, forgotten dirt road a red mailbox waits with its tongue out. One day, out of a cloud of dust A faded blue pickup speeds by unloosing a fistful of notices. Invitations. They flap up in the wind like evening birds. What do we do with them? Then there is the pebble with the beautiful pattern right in your hand on the beach You see it, love it, intuit its secret. Gazing into it you may find it reminds you of the mind of being itself or you feel yourself looking into the eye of the architect of life. Light fades. You say, You must be going. You stash the pebble in your pocket. There it languishes like all the other messages Into silence. I wonder. Do the stars get tired of telling us how to wake up?



So many messages, so many invitations to see from a new perspective and clean out the clutter if limiting beliefs. Beautiful. Love the poetry.
Thanks, Connie. As always it's a pleasure to know you get it!