She's stirring sugar into her coffee when I hear it. A mallet sliding across brass hammered thin.
She's folding her laundry by the side of the bed when I hear it. A fingertip circling the rim of a glass.
She's stirring a pot of beans on the stove when I hear it. A cat purring on a sun-warmed cushion.
She's reorganizing her paperwork when I hear it. An ocean of wind dancing across the hills.
She's clearing clutter off the table when I hear it. The unhurried morning murmur of loved ones
A quiet, innocuous sound. A soft, short hum in a moment of peace. An echo of ease.
Calling me to the present moment.
Shaking all the memories held into dancing shapes and patterns.
Each note expanding the surface, raising the sides to hold more.
The unconsciously given gift: Capacity.
When she leaves, I'll have to climb Olympus to sweep away the mandala sands.
About the Creator
M.L. Ross
The thoughts, stories, ideas, nonsense piling up in my mind have reached critical mass. Sometimes they're coherent enough to share directly, sometimes they have to filter through the Robit first.
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