Dawn breathed a fresh hue over the dark sky as the temperature dropped a couple of degrees in preparation for sunrise. Some days I wake with a heavy weight on my spirit, other days that weight is lifted, but this morning was different. Overwhelmingly grateful and surprisingly stable I rise from the table to examine this new angle. A ritualistic stray from my materialistic way. Into the mystic to stay. I’m planning my great escape. I’m not confined to this cave. The stone’s been rolled away. As needle meets vinyl and coffee fills cup, with eggs on iron my world wakes up. Fruit on table, in bed, and on vine. A sacred waste of time. As dew dries and birds harmonize, the sun loses its grip on the horizon and gets sucked up into the sky. This beautiful space is a slave to time. Existence like incense it’s gone in an instant:
Will your fragrance be psalms of worship or fumes from a war ship?
(Art= Swedish Painter: Marcus Larson 1825-1864)