hacked

Cenotaph for Sanity

Alas, poor Tree I knew him well. Full branched, handsome, sweet fir-coned, he stood forty years tall. He was home to nesting songbirds and street-wise squirrels. He offered shade, cool shade, on a sun drenched day and oh, to catch his scent upon the wind was to sigh for. Yet, one day, the man-across-the-street who plays piano chopped him down; and, upon his stump, the man-across-the-street who loves to garden placed a pretty pot of pink petunias adorned by a plastic winged ornament with a long black beak.

I cry for Tree and Songbird and Squirrel. I cry for Wind and Sun and Me.

ice dreams

Awe for the Scent of a Rose

I so longed for a breath of fresh air. All week we've been under siege. Blistering heat and stifling humidity combined with filthy, grey smog is nothing short of horrid. No comfort to be found from the sickening stench of our disregard. When will we wake up?

Angel of Surrender
The ability to be with what is going on rather than remaining preoccupied with what might, should or could happen. Let go of the need to manage life and deepen into the peace of acceptance. (Innerlinks)

hooked up

ICD

another lap
around the track
of busy body mending
cancer done
now heart unsung
calls for further tending

thanks for all the fish

Radiate

The course of treatment finished today. Weak and exhausted, he confided, "I might not make it back, Pats."

"You've done better than most," his nurse confirmed. "You'll be feeling fine in a month's time," his doctor assured. They've given him nothing but straight talk and encouragement, small talk and laughter. They've listened to all his fears and answered every question with compassionate action. They've played his favourite music while they set up and aimed. They've talked of pets and catnip and shared stories of home and away.

Thank you Joyce and Patti, Sarah and Maria, Dr. Lukka and all. Thank you for caring for my father these past eight weeks.

I had never painted the notion, cancer clinic, in rainbow-shades of kind regard until now.