A nipping chill in the air stirs my artistic passion for the changes of Autumn. Passions that beckon me to look skyward at the beauty of misty streaks on the western edges of dark blue masses that reach out and absorb the hues of the distant setting sun.
All thoughts of misfortune and worries of tomorrow are overcome and muted at this moment as my soul relishes this special gift.
It is much like the moment a book you were reading falls away to the bedside surface the instant your body gives way to a nap prompted by the sounds of a rainy day.
This too is a gift from mother nature.
These gifts are about us, but go unrealized by so many who live their lives like robotic creatures railed on tracks to go, _to do, and to achieve meaningless objectives that will send their empty souls to a premature grave.
A man with little means I am, but not at heart,
For my core absorbs the riches mother earth and the universe have given me. Writers, artist, and poets feel and see things that others do not. Their hearts are fueled by the love of recreating what they see, what they experience, or what they can imagine.