these precious gems below my feet

Every day counts. It always has. Every single day from the beginning. Not just the hours passing in vain, not just empty minutes or meaningless seconds. Every day has importance, significance, much more than is believed. The words muttered, the colours seen, the stillness of a Sunday afternoon. The busyness of each morning, the rituals performed on work days, then rest days. Each day the moon grows fatter. Then with clockwork precision looses all its weight to appear thin and frail. The sun migrates from one end of the day to the other. Each direction bears its beautiful light. Repetition heals the suspecting soul, heals each broken promise. Then start again.
 

At times I am tired, worn down by the weight of each passing moment. Some moments elevate, carry the spirit to higher ground: float weightlessly. The world seems bigger, no problem unconquerable. These moments build days, build memories, build on the notion that there is constant urgency in how life must be lived. There is no time to waste. No time to waste on lovers who do not love. There can never be time wasted on tasks that numb the spirit. It becomes sinful to stay bound to places where the imagination cannot soar. It will not go unpunished if desires remain bound in neat packaging, remain hidden in secret corners. There are deeds that must be done, there are places that must be seen, there is freedom that must be conquered. There is real urgency in the now.

See how perfect this moment is. There is me on one side, there is you on the other. Between us is the deep, dark, mesmerizing river. There are little lights that guide my heart home. This land keeps me true to all that I have imagined long ago. Sometimes I break, but I break only by the beauty that my heart cannot take. Then you show yourself in full light, then in heavy dark. Every time I fight to hold back the tears. No other has had me fall in love so deep.

We fight the roots, cut them mercilessly with well sharpened axes, with pocket knives we keep for any occasion. Never mind the roots that hug rocks, that fight to keep their trees upright in the most hostile environments. The roots you have grown are young, can easily be ripped from the soil. Mine are better formed, sturdy, accountable for the unreasonable amount of love carried to my heart. Vessels through which the past tries to stay the past. Then a great thunder reveals the power of destruction. With rain and lightning these tall ornaments of history are threatened, their stories possibly ending. The winds ripping through the leaves, the howling storm attacking its still targets. We are all unprotected, unsheltered from such evil, senseless battering. Lean left and right, tangle the bald branches, latch on, sway to keep straight. There is a faint murmur, quiet chanting. The voices slowly grow stronger, more confident. The winds are still too loud and the chorus of the unruffled victims are swallowed whole. There in no reason not to beat on. Rhythmic succession of the same words. It is cold, the rain is beating down hard, the winds are like glass walls: impenetrable. Hear this sound, yell these words, use your voice, use the power in your voice. Yell as loud as you can: keep the earth below my feet!

Each day counts, counts more than the one before. The things you see are precious; the ones you love are you. Your roots are to be planted, nurtured. Everything you do must echo urgency for there is little time to waste. I must continue for there is little of my time to waste.