Suppose a record was made from nothing but the sounds of moist rose buds cupped in the fingers of spring 3. Imagine softness as white curls of warm sand with a daybreeze across a fairytale beach splashing gently laughing waves in turquoise waters over sun soaked skin
Note: I have been intending to go back over my early writing and see if some of them might be suitable for the blog. This one comes from 1968, when I was 19. I revised a bit, of course.
Surrender is the soft joy of letting go knowing the universe wraps you in loving arms nothing you can lose was ever yours the most precious gift that you could hope for or dream of you cannot own it’s already hidden within you it is love it is what you are made of