The storm has passed. For now.
It raged against and buffeted the house, while I meekly listened from beneath the covers.
I'm also at peace now, having fought heart and mind battles on the slopes of Mordor (Newlands, Capetown).
Now it's plunger coffee and jungle oats on the balcony outside my attic bedroom.
It's me and the orphan tomato plant that I was gifted on the West Coast by a hard working farmer and entrepreneur in Hopefield, when I visited last month.
It was a crisp blue-sky day set against snow-white on the not so distant mountains. Veld flowers were blooming (white, mauve and yellow, but mostly white), the red sand road was long and wide and inviting; it was a wonderful reminder of the joy of being alive. And well. And blessed.
I've regrouped and centered myself. I listen to the birds in the less bare trees, their song is sharp and clear; I hear the fast-flowing iron-brown water river that's at least two houses away.
I swim in words, I breathe in words, I think and dream in words, I am words.
All I have are words.
I humble myself - seeking neither fame nor fortune from words - and ask the world, also humanity, how I may serve them with words (since they are all I have)?
So as to encourage via words, or to hold up the mirror, so that all may lift their heads and again see the beauty of this world, and the beauty entwined like DNA in this life journey 'thing' we all share.
Or how else may I serve with words?