The Japanese Maple Tree branches outside my window are quivering in the wind like a small child's heels bouncing up and down. Its scarlet leaf-hands jittery are begging, stretching, reaching as with child eyes that draw "thank you" before an expected gift is even placed in her hands. The lower branches are skimming the air like a pianist hands skipping over the keys playing a soul melody. And then the corner of my eye is captured by the sudden flip of the curtain at the kitchen door as if the wind is shimmying his partner-dancer, tight-holding and releasing against the screen. And like a stolen secret, my heart left its throat and longed to lift its hands to twirl in that very same wind that teased its eyes back to life.
And just those movements poured like cleansing water over my heart-soul, over my always failing humanity that is blind, sleeps, and becomes overwhelmed, and it danced and sang the song of the Glory Gatherer.
Breathing in this wind that sings, dances, makes melody, gives gifts; just these movements pulse the joy.
And just those movements poured like cleansing water over my heart-soul, over my always failing humanity that is blind, sleeps, and becomes overwhelmed, and it danced and sang the song of the Glory Gatherer.
Breathing in this wind that sings, dances, makes melody, gives gifts; just these movements pulse the joy.
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