The clouds are coming in, moving over, moving past. Silently, although they may, I suppose, be arguing up there among themselves for all I know; I am too far below to hear them now. A drop of rain left here and there, just as a trail of breadcrumbs leading home to gingerbread houses and sugarpane windows that would melt if heavy rains should fall.
It is gentle, slow and steady. It is a life going on its path. The sun will only shine again upon reaching the destination of the traveler’s mind and soul. It is living. It is dying, too; and that’s all right.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
More poetry. Excellent.