Moments

Moments

Ubiquitous time resting in polarities of heartache and eternal euphoria. A loving glance, touch, etched in the permanence of our hearts with love. Spoken anger and impatience, how I wish we could move space and gently fold back time. The sweet smell of warm August nights and honeysuckle, to remind us of the days, less worry and bountiful joy. The sound of a siren passing by in an otherwise ordinary moment, resurrects the sharp memory of the day our lives changed forever. Sunday mornings, the quiet, a gift bestowed on us, to reset, rest, and gently remind us to settle into the rituals of nurturing routine and simplicity. Looking out the window of the airplane on the way to say goodbye to a loved one, as you fly above the clouds you find peace and understanding that the universe is made of so much more than our limited senses comprehend. That first bite of warm apple pie that transports you to sitting at your Grandmothers table and the ever-present scent of cinnamon in her kitchen and the comfort of her unwavering love. Our moments, akin to a leaf floating on the ocean, she flows with the tide, the sun and moon decidedly dictate her path. The leaf surely experiencing days of glorious sunshine and tumultuous storms, all the while floating, always moving and never in control. Her story started long ago, she has travelled from limb to land, with tales of wind and glory. Equally fragile and strong, storing moments, built on a continuum connected time . The leaf of autumn, much like you and I. Glorious in her lifelong story, travelling in moments, without a sound.

By Alisa Hutton

Gentle Quiet

grass

Roll open the scroll of your life on the grass

Wide and long with gentle hand and thought

Precious parchment is sure to fray when harshness pours

Edges brown and beg to be absorbed back in to earth they once grew

The scroll may grow in length, assurance not your right

Sit with it in quiet, allow the rain to wash away that which is not meant for permanence

Ask for it, chant and pray if you must

Left on the wet uncomfortable quiet of the grass will be your timeless ink and legacy

When you shiver, honor stillness

When you hear only scream, honor quiet

When little is remaining, trust

Trust the story being left, the story being written

For that which is deeply rooted will not be washed away by the rain

Trust in gentle quiet

That which remains after the storm

Is

You

~Alisa Hutton