He called out
He waited, but the echo never returned
Instead he was greeted with the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end
Poking needles, a reminder of yesterday
How the sun rose in the sky, but never found the horizon to lay its head down at day’s end
The sun only waited and watched from above, trying to understand the hidden meanings that sometimes do not exist
Overcomplicating the simplicity of the moment
We are no better off reading tea leaves in a tiny cup
Floating in hot water
Steeping again and again, void of flavor and color
Drying spent leaves in the heat of the sun brings no salvation nor reprieve
They forever remain tasteless and grey
Instead, release the anxious sun, cycles need to complete
Allowing days to end, new yesterdays to birth
So a response can be heard the next time we call out
.
Originally posted October 12, 2015
