Ye Of Little Faith.

Stop poking the ground.

Stop telling the seeds to sprout out and grow now now now!

Sigh... this is not my season yet.

But I shall be that late bloom.

That will stand in stark contrast to the whiteness of snow.

Only He.

Will make those stringed orbs float.

Whilst I stay on the ground.

I have to be the brown native of this earth first.

Before I can become the blue dweller of the ocean and the sky.

Haha, I Am The Cake.

No slice for you, my dear.

I'm keeping myself under that glass dome.

Away from the weight of your hands.

Away from the mist of your words.

Away from the heat of your perusal.

Opaque friend...

That Madding Crowd.

That singularly-plural force...

...Has no effect on the poles of my world.

I am as stubborn as the core of my planet...

This Orbit.

Brings in rain and snow and sun.

But... It will take me to my own season.

(The sweet pain of swirling in space.)

Punto Final.

At last

The lightest shove

Alas

The happy cliff.

An Afternoon With Jacques.

I shook my head after reading what you wrote.

And I silently whispered a word of thanks.

Dead men do tell tales...