Mountain Air-Saturday Clouds

I’ve been watching Saturday clouds wandering over the ocean. Absently drinking bitter-black coffee, when my mind rolled into the slipstream of memory.

A spring morning, on a Saturday, so long ago. Sitting, talking at the kitchen table, flowers on the windowsill. Let’s go live on the land. Ain’t no use in laying money in another man’s hand. I am true and I am blue and I’ll not shun you.

We lie in our truths and tell the truth in our lies. It’s black or it’s white, but it’s always gray. We dance around hearts as if they were trinkets of child’s play.

I stayed with these clouds over meadow and marsh, floating over footfalls and fairy tales, far up into the folding Carolina hills. On another Saturday afternoon, I pitched a tent and offered my wares, while the fiddler girls played a mountain ballad of love and loss with tender care.

Music in the azure light lifted my soul—I was standing on heavens stage. Angel actors appeared like clouds, assured me this is how its been and how it will always be. Love is a mountain, and mountains erode eventually, back into the sea.

I am not trying to impress you, or be more than I am. I’m fairly simple, an honest painter, a lover, a father and a friend. I am only trying to Be. I’m learning to trust my eyes more than what my brain misleads me to see. All there is, is what’s right now, and what you got within. I believe there is more than what I can see, the Divine Light is in you—certainly. I am still searching for it in me.

An old-timer appeared, moonshine in his eyes. Said, if God is everywhere, why can’t I find him?

Standing there, hand on my brush, amid my illusions and assumptions, facing the unfolding mountains,  I replied. I don’t know old feller… I’ve been watching clouds, wandering…

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