I don’t write my words for posterity.
These vagabond musings are not created to linger in some “dry as dust” attic, to be discovered, covered in cobwebs, by some unborn explorer.
No, they are transient, like cobwebs themselves, magicked out of nowhere, to sit momentarily, dewclad, upon a rosebush of morning.
They are fragments of dust, dancing briefly in a beam of sunstricken wonder, surprised perhaps at the creation of them.
Butterflies they are, floating amid spring blossoms for a tortuously short existence prior to vanishing into uncertain memory.
And these very words I write now are no more than sculptures in sand.
There for a moment, and then washed, inevitability away by the oncoming tide.
Erased from life, from memory, to be replaced by those new words of tomorrow, that wait impatient, desperate to be born, eager to shine in their temporary world.
Stan Phillips 2020 ©
