By Dianne H. Timmering
I walk in shorts.
The sky is busy. The clouds race across using the stable blue for a sweeping canvas. So much to write. It roars and the wind carries it sounds. I am listening but I can’t make it out. The pines blow and wave and add to the shouts of the hemisphere. Listen out loud. A warning? Or a beckoning that life is ready to be lived in.
A day stuck in time. The trees claw at the sky. Give me the fruit of my arms so I can live again.
No portals today but smashed heavens one a top of the other knowing it is close and a good place to be. For those who have gone before us. To emulate its same rules and passions on this planet. Thy will be done. On this earth as in the heavens.
The leaves dance on her asphalt path-guided floor. Skip. Every sound is a note, every note a word. Decoding the earth. I value her.
The sounds are coming from inside the portal – waste no time, He says. El Shaddai – He is the boss
This particular cloud portal moves. Like a giant hand – the earth like its own pod or time-castle. A lunar capsule to a new land. Where they come from it or we pass through. I am not sure.