As I sat there,
I prayed to be drenched in sunshine,
that if I closed my eyes tightly enough,
the blades beneath me would soften into clouds
that would lift me closer to the sky
where I could paint all the things I wanted to paint
— splashes of crimson and violet and lavender
seeping cerulean, viridian greens dripping into oceans,
transatlantic art,
bursts of vermilion, bittersweet, persimmon orange,
screaming yellows: school bus, saffron, highlighter
rage, neon rage
exploding, constantly exploding —
without anyone
telling me
it was too much
to handle.

I am so wracked with introspection I can barely think;
and I'm nervous, or something,
or just sad; deeply saddened by the thought of leaving,
you —
I mean, all of you,
all at once.

Fleeting / Ecclesiastes

"Remember your Creator
in the days of your youth,
before the days of trouble come
and the years approach when
you will say,
'I find no pleasure in them' —
before the sun and the light
and the moon and the stars grow dark,
and the clouds return after the rain;
when the keepers of the house tremble,
and the strong men stoop,
when the grinders cease because they are few,
and those looking through the windows grow dim;
when the doors to the street are closed
and the sound of grinding fades;
when people rise up at the sound of birds,
but all their songs grow faint;
when people are afraid of heights
and of dangers in the streets;
when the almond tree blossoms
and the grasshopper drags itself along
and desire no longer is stirred.
Then people go to their eternal home
and mourners go about the streets.

Remember him — before the silver
cord is severed,
and the golden bowl is broken;
before the pitcher is shattered at the spring,
and the wheel broken at the well,
and the dust returns to the ground it came from,
and the spirit returns to God
who gave it."

I have never wanted to remember anything more than You.
You see more than my tired eyes ever will,
You comfort more than my weary arms will ever hold,
You are, You are, You are.

You are.
You are.
You are.