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(click the pic for a better view)

Our love makes a rose blush.

There’s a light between us; you know.

How can love move not as a sound, not even as a whisper, but with such force air is washed away to bring clarity?

Love is the moment we never forget. I will never forget.

*

Of all the ways of knowing, the heart is the true map maker of the soul. That map of a soul’s love burns without end, always lighting the way no matter how often it’s left.  The course seems unknown but it remains a lover’s best friend, always waiting to be found, read and followed.  To follow is best. This path dissolves differences in the soul as simply as a mirror loses a reflection.  Might we step away from the difficulty of life and walk into another space where love is the reflection? How far can that journey be?

(This is a stream we call , The River Sticks, that flows near Micanopy, Florida….my wife’s shot.)

The field of love is daunting and magnificent. Beauty radiates to shame the sun; light beams illuminate shadows without dispelling their shape. The glistening water, flowers of purple, pink, daisies of so many colors, even the fallen leaves thread together to become the softest thistledown that’s blown by purpose. Hearts hope to follow. Hearts watch and hear that gliding, floating seed as it infuses vision with images as real as our thoughts and dreams. Soon, our hopes become our visions and, if we dare, an endless walk to understanding ensues. There’s so much to leave behind and so much to learn again; the feet get tired but the heart remains determined.

When true lovers look out and see themselves, then, they know.

And when I followed the course of love, I went beyond the moon to pass Jupiter and Pluto to find a space beyond where Time began. There, I found you, again.  The Universe is never surprised, so my hand found your grasp to fit as if we’d never let go—we could never let go. Separation was never possible.

( this is my shot, and it went with  a glob I love...https://franque23.wordpress.com/2014/12/23/the-man-with-a-wave-a-holiday-story/  )

We fell spinning into the smell of fresh, spring grass. This was us. Love remained the flower, gentle, unassuming, radiant, a flower lost only to a moment repeated, forever. And in this moment the sun became a blanket; the breeze blew cool to perfectly lift your face. Birds sang, ringing my ear more in time than can be imagined but for the beating of a heart.

The heart is Life’s echo chamber.

I’ve turned around to find time slipped. There are so many painted canvases beneath beds that will never be put up again. There are so many numbers we’ve shared that we’ll never dial—so few are left to answer. Our voices though not gone are different. Still, my heart refuses to hear.

Of course, it’s time to listen. Everyone knows the time.

**

People say it’s a calling, a voice heard, a secret message from the heart as a tap on the shoulder so forceful it causes a person to turn to find no one is there. It’s time to revisit the waters, the field that seemed so intimidating at first, as if every step along my way would bend the grass and leave a mark unwanted. I leaped ahead to run and splash back then anyway, trusting love was there as it seemed to always be.

Jan, 1983 I know who to thank on this Father’s Day….

What a flight, this place called love. And what I have to offer in return are things that aren’t mine to give, the sky, the ocean, those crunchy shells in the beach sand at your feet, the wind, a warm rain and an icicle’s reflected light. I’d bundle it all for you but still the gift would not be enough to give in return for love.

“Words are never enough.” I read this upon a wall and knew a writer’s heart had left a message.

Love.

But, you know.

Bonaparte glistens….

Thanks Mary Sherman for this shot.

We love the Shermans

I’m on the far right with my cousins, sister and brother.

Franque23-

*This is Cassie Anderson’s first painting…It hangs in our camp at the lake. I’m in the boat with  her dad, Rob Morgan…..

**This is my brother, Ed Franquemont, standing before the steps of his passion-the Peruvian culture.

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