A Valley of Golden Corn


Things have been falling out of and into place more than ever. She doesn’t want to put words to subtle changes, that they may be fragile as the most delicate of wings. It is the theory that when we grasp, the thing slips away, and so she silently begs to keep her hands from making fists. She pleads gently- let go, let go, let go.

Words are powerful said like prayers, with a sincerity that marinates you for an unknown time. A week, a decade, is there a difference? We are always walking a fine line through a web of paths, and so silence becomes us. Solitude becomes us and togetherness does, too.

Even though at times we may run blindly, we pray there will always be moments of sunset in valleys of golden corn. It is all as impermanent as you are. It is all as beautiful as you are and as ugly as you are. It may very well be a reflection of what you are, and maybe sometimes we can feel more at home with the idea that we are one with the cliffs and the pastures, the waves and the rain.

Always, we will fall out of and into place, at last.


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