Short Story with Catholic Characters
Majestic, snow-white, mountain-clouds edged with wispy gray threads morph across the world-encircling sky. Ever changing—bulging, slimming, rounded knobs towering into the blue, twisty peaks reaching like skinny fingers for the endless expanse across our glorious upper landscape.
Fronds of black-green plants prickle the window box, overlapping tiny round tendrils and wide palms, each demanding their share of today’s
life-light.
Outdoor bush cousins wave bent hands from aged branches, while young, deep-green trees belly laugh, their shimmering middles in constant, fluttery motion.
A wind chime tinkles a repeated refrain, high-toned, melodic, yet solemn as a church bell in response to the native call—nature’s current, billowing breeze.
Chirping crickets, humming cicadas, warbling birds, and a single droning bee beat late summer drums, hinting of autumn, warning all who will listen—change is coming.
Scent of breakfast sausage, eggs, and toast lingers in the air, wafting between the outgoing perfume of a musician off to play the poignant organ hymns for a funeral Mass.
Spicy tea offers quiet joy to the mid-day palate, enticing happy memories to rise from the messy bed of worldly concerns.
Snappy thoughts rampage across the soul from last night’s dream-delirium to the morning’s first ringing phone call, questions need answers, requests demand decisions, plans must be organized, and hopes rise and fall in perfect irregularity.
To see. To hear.
Smell and Taste.
Nourish Life Mysteriously.
Inward look, silently listen, breathe hidden scents, and savor the moment.
Abundant offerings so often missed.
Beauty swept by.
Natural symphonies ignored.
Wafting scents spiral away.
Subtle flavors gobbled and gulped.
Moods erratic for no known reason.
The sun descends, the clouds converge, lightning flashes catch the eye, thunder rumbles, exciting spirits.
Fierceness makes us pause.
To see and hear, smell and taste the warning in the air.
Day does fade, and night will rise.
In cycles for a time.
Until the end.
Then silence and stillness reign.
We are left to single me.
No landscape to repair the barren desert of life unlived.
Yet, the sun does shine, a wispy cloud floats by, soon to fade, a white heart in a blue field, amid a world that can see, hear, smell, and taste life’s glory—if it will.
Poetry is not dead, as long as hearts are alive.
Hope's Embrace
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