Between house and office, clouds cover nothing but some part of the glare which reflects from my eyes. Beyond that the blue imprints itself into me and my tangerine-colored shirt sings almost with its sweet color, mingling threads of color with the peachy roses in the blue-swirl vase on the table with the red tablecloth and the sunflower place mats. Stacks of paper sit where I’ve put them, but oh these figs call to me with their perfect shapes, their perfectly ripe colors, and the absolute pleasure of their taste.
My friend runs in for a moment, having forgotten something he needs to travel, calling out, too, he left a present (sparkling mineral water) in the garage. I smile. Others call, and with each voice, each sound, I think of love, I remember love, I intend love to be my world. I read about Spirit Consciousness, the energy that creates us, what energy I am, and I want to leave this gift, to share this delicious chocolate drop of truth with each person I think of. Let this citrus burst spray, let this ripening begin, continue, and bloom. Some of the figs had fallen to the ground. Still, we picked hands full, and each has its fullness, its presence, and oh, its taste.
