I wonder how far a snowflake can fall? I wonder if it changes along the way? I wonder if it starts big and gets smaller, or starts small and gets bigger? I wonder if it thinks it has control over where it’s going, or if it thinks it’s directed by gravity and wind? Maybe gravity and wind are within it, and it does control where it’s going. And the things that create gravity and wind are also within it. And a snowflake determines not only its own course, but the course of time, matter, and space.
I wonder if anyone else likes to watch the snow like I do? It’s kind of like watching a movie. Maybe I should make some popcorn to eat while I watch the snow fall…
I wonder if anyone else likes to watch popcorn pop like I do? It’s kind of like watching a movie. Maybe I should make some popcorn to eat while I watch the popcorn pop…
“Her hand was writing before he was writing, then her hand was writing when he was writing and he was writing what she was writing. And his hand was hers. But hers was not his. Then his hand was writing, and her hand was writing, then hers was not, and his was not.”
Hmmm, thought Blurtso, no more football.
I wonder how much I can get for my TV?
Kahlil Gibran, said Pablo, in the section, “On Children”, writes:
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”
That’s very profound, said Blurtso. Yes, it is, said Pablo.
I wonder, said Blurtso, if Gibran was a donkey in a former life?
listen to “Take me there”
“She didn’t look to see if he was looking to see if she was looking so he couldn’t see that she was looking. Time passed until she looked to see if he was looking to see if she was looking or just looking.”
“Too many words”
Oh Lizzy,
too many words and too much motion
to describe the branch’s sway
and the afternoon of your eyes!
Buzz, hum, and flutter are slower words.
City whisper heard from the hills,
and voices’ splash crossing the canyon.
Seep in, stillness,
settle the swell of the sea!
Too many words, too much motion
to feel the feel of the earth,
its grass beneath the hooves,
its spray upon the cheek.
With so little wisdom,
with circles and struggles and haste,
how can I hope to catch the ripple
of your breath on the glass of my soul?
“The moon found you”
Caught in the discarded straw
on the floor of the loft,
the broken rays reached toward you.
Like timid fingers they touched lightly,
then relaxed embracing your ankles.
Slowly, like a child entering water,
you were immersed in the light.
It moved like a gentle river
illuminating your cool flesh,
it flowed to the eddy of your knees
and grew in two rich currents
to meet at the top of your thighs.
Pausing, rising and falling with your breath,
tender waves rolled to your neck,
caressing your forelegs and breast.
As the light reached your eyes
I feared it might wake you,
so I blocked it with my hoof
and let you go on sleeping.