How we fill the pockets made from silk or cotton is a choice as we
reach to the sky and into our hearts where ocean waves pound gently upon shores pristine or scattered over with the remnants of untended dreams and purpose.
My fingers delve deep, the pockets seeming small from outer vision yet they are truly without end, feeling their way through a bit of grit here or an old M&M or a fluffy ball of lint that once hid Her Voice with a muffled sort of echo that could only be heard among the silence of solitude on distant mountain trails where songs were played and harmony swelled and scampered.
Always the pockets and only my mind keeps them tattered or soft as flannel or ironed with starch so stiff I cannot reach in without scraping my knucles.
Pockets of presence that emit dark secrets and the light of love and the ever-changing gifts that flow like a river of warm oil onto dry parched skin.
Magically changing, they are full and then empty, and allow for the shifting that occurs without warning.
All the tools that I need are here in my pockets like little felt treasure boxes lining my pants and my shirts, the pockets all colors and textures.
See here the denim that resists all the dirt or the lacy one of handkerchiefs grandma kept in her purse.
Or look there's a sweet one all sticky with honey from harvesting love freely offered.
Pockets of presence are all over my skin like the soft petals of flowers.
I wear them without knowing and then see them suddenly when I stop looking.
Pause and reach down or across and they appear.
A reminder ... all that I need is always right here.
My form is shaped by the pockets of past
that shimmer and wrinkle as time flies so fast.
Here are the moments of each step on the path
and they all contain gifts, treasures beyond measure.
If they are dirty be washed, if tattered be mended.
And with only a thought they are whole.
Pockets of presence clothing the Soul.