gazing inward, enclosed in a cosmos of swirling color and pattern,
he focuses on hands in prayer, tenderly held prayer beads.
and there is his youthful prime
of life, of love, and loving action
he perches pedestal high and ponders
and waits for the prayers to bear fruit in action
for the colors and patterns to coalesce and become his future.
Still thinking of my sons who are both at the ages (18 and 21) where the FUTURE looms large, requiring dreams which are substantial, weighty, passionate, far reaching, imperative and so on. Anything’s possible, I remember thinking at that age. And so I pass that on to them, wishing it for them, even as my own sights are set on more simple achievements – a meal shared with good friends, a bit of paint speaking some plain truth, a hummingbird hovering by as I eat my lunch.