like so many fireflies
blanketing the woods of our days
and then flitting away
even the last sparks we have cupped in our hands.
The brightest moments, the cleanest water, the sincerest prayer
are all things that rest momentarily in the hollow of grace we make
with our palms.
Life is a constant pattern of beauty retreating, flowing
like water, like the breath that utters the prayer ascending,
like ephemeral light bearers leaving
with the assured expectation of all that beauty
(can it be measured with palms curled like leaves ready to unfold,
can it be measured with all the curled palms in the world?)
being invoked again. — Annette Marie Smith
We are salmon.
We are birds
We are butterflies.
Our gills flutter, become feathered wings
then gild translucently
into mariposa stained-glass windows,
holy eyes, marvels painted
we carry on our backs.
Our backs, in turn, are horse,
are steed (no one said unicorn
oops, there I guess I did)
our means of standing up
to make the leap that lets us soar
metamorphically/metaphorically. — Annette Marie Smith
I lost a friend recently to death and I have been thinking about the conversations I will never have with him now (he was a great conversationalist), how charming and debonair he was, how smart and handsome and also how strange to this world. Always a little odd and different, someone who dabbled in magic and elegantly flaunted magic’s accouterments and props: a cane, a hat he wore with style, tarot cards and even batons of fire to spin flame through the night in feats of juggling.
He was a gentle soul and always, to me, he seemed to be searching for something just out of reach, always out of reach — even with all the many ways there are in this world of reaching for things.
This photo makes me think of him, blue for the magic and the sea for enchantment, and the heart shaped rock for the way that he will not be forgotten, will always be loved, by me and by so many others. I will always think of him restlessly turning like the waves of the sea and reaching like the light shining on it for something ineffable but most assuredly there. — Annette Marie Smith