~Tintinnabulum~

09/22/2011

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Picture
~a squirrel on the mailbox~
~attempting to argue me out of breakfast~
~a church bell sends it flying into a tree~
~it chitters at children skipping down the street~
~I smile & go inside~
~it gets my breakfast after all~

~Tintinnabulum~


Sparrows nesting in the eaves flit dangerously near strangers crossing the porch.  Hungry cries from the nest announce the event of birthing has come and is gone.  These tiny shrill voices are nature’s call to morning as sure as the sun rises.  A fat cat lays in the yard purring, pondering its next meal.

A child laughing nearby, whose tinkling voice somehow defies the tar rubber roar of traffic, is a sweet reminder of Sunday, late spring and bare feet, wiggly toes and dandelions, knows well to celebrate, embrace and engage the day.  A deep rumbling in the earth precedes a low flying train.

A man with love in his heart makes a low humming sound, deep, deeper in his being than that of conscious awareness.  His spirit becomes an instrument, a finely tuned harp, upon which wind fingers play and the voice of his lover.  A smile visits his lips.  True beauty is borne, sweet silence on a Sunday morn.

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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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~Sunday Come Early~

09/04/2011

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Picture
~the morning caught me looking the other way~like the face in the mirror~
it continues to look back and the dog won’t stop barking~
who are these dead people in the room staring from the black glass box~

~Sunday Come Early~

Sunday came too early, 7:30a.m., the dog banging on the door downstairs.  I took her some water, told her to be quiet, went back to bed.  A few minutes later she commenced to bark, bringing the neighbors into our morning.  Resigned to my fate, I got dressed and went outside.  Like a spoiled child, one way or another, the dog usually gets her way.

Sunday morning came too early, 1a.m., my wife and I finished watching a movie, Sling Blade.  John Ritter was in the movie.  He’s dead now in real life.  Dennis Hopper died last year.  It occurs to me that the deaths of these actors I’ve been watching most of my life, in some vague sense, has something to do with me.  As if my aching bones weren’t reminders enough this Sunday morning come too early.

Aging is relative to life, isn’t it.  Like it or not, if it isn’t occurring, neither are you.  So I’m thankful for the good ol’ dog, my coffee morning wife and stepdaughter still asleep in her rooms upstairs, especially gifted and thankful for my five wonderful children and their sweet little ones. 

I take several moments each day and night to dwell on those specific and special children of mine.  The night would never end if I hadn’t held them close in my mind and spirit with each breath.  Sunday morning wouldn’t occur.  Who would water and quiet the dog.  I am glad to be a man who has done so, three cups of coffee in to a Sunday come early.

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