Fear is the death knell to Love. Fear runs through the blood like a madman with a machete! Machete? Did someone say machete? (Careful, now. Fear runs rampant on the playgrounds of war.)
We’ve nothing to fear but ourselves.
Crash the party, trumpet, with your tap tap tappety tap on the spine of Creation! Guitar, strum me some melancholy tune for my arrival, then bring me soaring! You too, piano! Jump in, tambourine! Hey, Fiddle! Resurrect my soul that I might dance! Soak my veins in Love, dear cello! Sling me inside the mouth of all things sacred, didgeridoo!
You got to be a witchdoctor to have such hands. You got to be Love to perform the miracles you do. Oh! Pray me out of this dream!
Drenched in sweat I see her before me, wings high above her shoulders, eyes the color of Creation, the heart of an angel, Love. She had again returned to me, she guided her heart to mine and we danced along the pathway.
There are no meadows here.
The ice will come again as a blanket for the Willow, the snow will come again as winter’s sleep, the rain will come again as a baptism of truth, and her quake will come again to create herself anew.
What of humankind?
I don’t know. Anything’s possible, if we’ll but choose Love.
© 2011 by mark prime