The heart is a passionate storyteller.
It is talkative; but chooses to leave many things unsaid.
It thrives on intuition and is all-knowing.
It dislikes U-turns.
It is a realist who eagerly takes leaps of faith;
a pugilist who telegraphs its punches;
and a pacifist who turns the other cheek.

But the heart is not spineless.
It will take a stand, alone if necessary,

because it understands its own heart.
It will champion compromise

but remains true to itself.

Hope is like the pied piper

pulling delicately on the soft chambers of your heart.
Its rhythms are warm like the touch of a friend.

Hope is a piping hot mocha,

oozing comfort on cold days.
It is the crackling warmth of a gentle fire

that somehow allows a heart to heal and believe again.

Hope is a free-spirited companion,

who lifts your soul and carries you like the wind.
It caresses your heart, teaches you to take deep breaths
and reopen yourself to new experiences.

Who remembers a weary, elderly man,
settling into the twilight of his former self?
Who has spare time for a frail, mature woman perched on a walker,
struggling to keep pace with life's spirited changes?

Who remembers the unemployable father or the retired mother,
when they no longer draw a salary;
when life no longer decorates them with lofty titles?

Love is wont to talk in tongues, but it always speaks a universal language.
Love has a familiar face - timeless and transient.
Sometimes, it is measured.

Other times, it is spontaneous and unpredictable.
Sometimes, it is illogical and just defies logic.

I remember a simpler time.
Back when less seemed like more and charity was homegrown;
when families had time to celebrate closeness over good food;
and conversations sprang up spontaneously like wild flowers;
when strangers were regarded not as strangers,
but as new friends in waiting.
A time when elders were co-parents even to unfamiliar children

and relished the right to teach them the path.

I will not hide.
I am determined to keep my head above the parapet.
I like to hear the sweet perfumes of spring whistling in my ears
and to taste the scintillating scents of a brisk breeze seeping effortlessly into my thoughts.
I enjoy the feel of an early sun rising high in the air to greet me.

When silence whispers,

it so often touches the soul.
It ruminates like love songs,
and its voice resembles the soft chants of slow-moving water

as it kisses the jagged faces of rocks.
It makes me homesick…

And I want to see you with my skin,

touch you with my eyes.
It makes me want to feel

the serene sounds of daylight cascading in the air.
And I want to taste the wholeness of this quiet stillness.

Yesterday carries generous blossoms.

They sprout on leafy branches and cast long shadows.

Yesterday is like a vessel
but not merely where old memories loiter.
It has a mind of its own.
And if left unguarded,
it quietly raises barriers.

Yesterday is a long winding road.
It is ambivalent, ambidextrous, and cunning.

Sometimes, it is exacting, quite unforgiving.
It lives vicariously on the broad shoulders of time.
Sometimes, it smiles and dances.