The cold seeping into sit bones, ground down, making contact with pine boards long forgotten. Naked, chemical layers peeled away leaving four-inch planks marred, splintered. Never recovered after the well ran dry.
The shack became refuge for four-legged prowlers, shelter seekers hiding from rain clouds banging thunder. How grateful we were, two-legged invaders, that sharing meant opening; a monk, a student, and feral beasts; our woodland roofed sanctuary.
He approached each morning; sun radiating around him, dusty rays beaming magnetic particles sideways. Wise eyes brightly lit inside. His voice, organic, cultivated honey, soothing away dreamtime worry.
Opening cupped hands, purpling with January’s wind; cradling black loam bundling white spindly, fibrous lace. Silently wondering, what bind will he remove today.
“One who can identify this flower sees true beauty.”
Fabric whispered past me; crisp air brushed my face. Shivering slightly, I began; breath lengthening, mind opening.
Legs became floor; hours became stars; flame became cinders; room became cave; spirit became ghost.
A match burst forth. “Did you discover the flower?”
I shook my head no.
“Did you discover the answer?”
Pearl coloured hands wrapping cedar beads, beckoned to proceed.
“A blind man can paint a face perfectly when he truly loves.”
His smile broke open the room; hands clapped gently.
“Lesson done. Come. We dine.”
I smiled, the rooted heart never hungers. ~