we talked today

with humor about getting older.

and in my 35th year (about halfway perhaps), the voices of debate seem soothingly stilled.

i see them still, the men and women who talk passionately of black and white, of war and peace of hell or not. sometimes i almost start to speak. and then, quietly, my eye drifts off into the distance.

towards wiping away a tear, reading a bedtime story, holding somebody who needs it, listening when it's wanted, loving when it's asked for and especially when it's not. there is no perfect here, in this heart, in this mind, in this soul.

just today a small bubble of anger and then...it fades into pinkness and understanding. until there is nothing left there, but, warmth.

there is no all-knowing-anything here within. it's just the tongue which tires of speech and instead wants to act with love. in the quiet spaces that few see and even less talk about.