By: EarlB, 11:40 PM GMT on August 27, 2008
The sunrise sun backlit the now brown corn tassles,
it passed through them to light a ream of paper thin layers
of fog strewn across the road.
I shuffled through those pages early, an hour before the wind
would have done so without me.
It is the time of year that the fog's manuscript is rewritten each
day, as sure as sun, as sure as corn, as sure as wind.
How would the story read? Does it have a plot, a moral?
Is it a story of the end of summer or is it just
a now common start of another day?
The sun, the wind and I,
The every-nightly left-over
Of thin slips Of fog
From the floor.
By: EarlB, 1:42 AM GMT on August 13, 2008
Don't waste your money trying to buy the perfect view, the unique
experience. If there could be enough money, would buying the moment feel
as good as having it handed to you? There should be no ticket to the
destination of a memory, only the gift of the journey.
The memories that will last will not be the deep canyon views, they won't
be the cruises to the middle of an ocean to watch a solar eclipse, nor will
they be the view of thousands of icebergs floating to sea.
The memories that will last will be the child meeting her first butterfly,
nose to nose, the shooting star that promising wishes fulfilled and the hug
from someone who doesn't want you to leave.
I've taken photos, I've been given memories.
Updated: 11:02 AM GMT on August 13, 2008