Fruit Of Love

Many years ago, now. I lit a candle at the table, proof reading there, a pile of my poetry. A lethargy of lovely 'nap' came over me. I lay my head back.

When I awoke, in afternoon light...the candle, out. The poetry taken away by some hand...invisibly, where but a circled pile of black ash lay, and it it's midst...'a note', a single '8th note' burned into the table top.

No smoke, no fire, no smell...nor sign of anything at all amiss, save this...the poetry no more, but 'one note' in a song remain. I think...'one breath', from a loving God.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: musical notes, google pic