A long walk in the park, my quiet place. I think to myself: my friends cushion my soul, when I long to be held. They walk alongside me for long or short. I don’t measure distance, gratitude knows no restraints. My friends distrust their impression of knowing me fully even in the maturing years of our friendship. They have not lost wonder in meeting me over and over, frequenting the nectar of our friendship, like a hummingbird dipping deep into the crevasse of a flower to still its thirst.

My friends listen to my voice and to the muscles in my face exposing my inner world. They listen for the sweeping sounds of rising waves my heart carries to the edge of my skin. They listen with me in their mind. Empty saucers draw in my every word, they then hold to their lips to taste and estimate my state of being. Their presence and regard caress my heart, so it too walks freely in the park of parks, trusting to be seen and heard by those, whose footsteps never wake the quiet place into distress. Their silent elephant soles knead the earth, which enwraps me, each step purposeful, considerate of the leaves and branches strewn on the ground. A mosaic-me they shine their light on with their presence in my life, always seeing, hearing, tasting the composition of color and light anew.

The far end of the world is only a distance, one my heart never ceases to resolve, when I think of a friend and they of me. Here nests my trust, that ever knowing-feeling of being held in timeless friendship. And sails that ship one day to new grounds, I rest in fond memory. And one day too, the horizon swallows our glowing sun as we transition, then still, I know I am loved.

I follow the white vastness with my gaze, in awe. We both smile. The flower in my palm. I love the flower’s kindness, touching its tenderness to the extended palm. I recognize the same vastness in a flower as in the floating ice. I grab a nearby chair from those cast under the protective shade of trees, and sit. I am a spectator with the world expanding before me. The continuous motion is a passage through time, scattering worn leaves along the way, hurrying my own life forward. Anticipating nothing, I rest for a moment with eyes open. The red chair on dry grass, a backdrop to life, is my resting place. I will die an observer, yet every act of mirroring the world plays out wholly in myself. Every irritation belongs to me, just as every marvel charging and mounting my heart is mine alone. Life is overflowing and I am not seperate, not from flowers, nor from shelves and crests of snow and ice, not from a single breath exposed and raw in frustration or pain or love. A faint or furious chime echos life, whispers to petals soft to my touch, breaks now on the ocean’s surface. The ocean is the palm that holds the flower up to the sky, where our eyes meet and smile.