Conversations with my brother. (On the eve of).

And so,

the storm

came

for

you.

Bent,

from the spirit

down

all the way to your

fears.

You

stood,

as wave after wave

sucked the air

from your

lungs.

A new

birth;

in

reverse.

But,

I have come to

plant

seeds

in that

diagnosis.

Hope.

Tender, fragile, indissoluble

hope.

Is a

giver

of

life,

if you will tend it well.

And,

there is something

that they have not

told you,

but I want to mark

your soul with these

words.

There are many ways to

live,

and there are many ways to

die.

And we have

seen

that it is

(im)possible

to spend years

with a beating heart

in a dead body.

And,

bitterness

will curdle

your spirit,

if you tend it well

You,

can

choose

life.

Live,

every,

single,

moment

unwrapping the

gift

of time.

And,

in this

beautiful rebellion

you will

become.

Alive.

— On the eve of.

©Liezel Graham. 2018.

Let her sing over your fears.

And,

even when

this life is

threadbare;

edges

frayed

from worry.

The earth

still sings a

lullaby

over all those

who listen

for her beauty.

— Let her sing over your fears.

.

.

.

When my heart is full and worry tries to rob me of peace, I look for the beauty all around me.

Early morning mist over the hills, a blackbird singing its song, blackberries exchanging their Summer coats for Autumn attire — Nature sings a constant song of beauty over me.

I find peace in the silence of the woods and meadows.