Fresent
Fresent A gift given or dedicated with a serving heart. A gift given or dedicated with delicate consideration.
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Traces of the Summer 2012
There are so many places to go in this vast world, and so much still to do while I'm young—and yet, at times, a deep sense of having no place for my heart creeps in, and I find myself looking back again and again at the path I’ve come. Unresolved questions still linger in a corner of my mind. Every so often, they resurface—bringing with them a fleeting, sweet taste of something detached from reality. Times I’ve passed through unrestrained. At times heavy and desperate, at others lighter than dust—I must have staggered and swayed, carried along by whatever drew me, whichever way the wind blew. I want to be drenched in a downpour—like the rush of ecstasy in the rain shown in The Shawshank Redemption. I want to run endlessly across the plains of western Canada. Like Forrest Gump, like Jack Kerouac, in search of a conclusion where I might encounter my ideal—wherever that may be. Life, you see...is a sheet of thin ice that might not end in a happy resolution, like a drama or...
O Spring!
Sergey-Pesterev-tJnqdD5sO_M-unsplash It feels like just yesterday I was spending Christmas vacation, digging out the joys of the year’s end buried in winter’s snow—and yet here we are, already in May. Though I’ve been counting the days, fully aware that spring was on its way, I didn’t realize the time had already carried me to May. What cycle, what chain of associations is holding my thoughts hostage? The campus in May would often be alive with festivals blending premature daytime heat and the chill that settled in overnight. Protests—once casually referred to as “demos”—were a natural part of the lives of young university students who lived in that same time. They were weary, burdened youth who carried within them countless questions about life itself. The powder of tear gas buried in the leaves and corners of the campus would dissolve and run whenever it rained, bringing on unseasonal tears. We accepted it all as if it were the most natural thing,...
A Window
There is a window of mine where the cold of winter lingers. A window unseen, unopened—not by me. It casts a shadow heavy as life itself my small defiance against a world grown dim. These quiet corners where time blurs all things into distance. The ache of accepting what I can never hold. And the longing that will not fade, led always by the traces that will not disappear. My lost familiar rhythms. My verses once tireless and lovely as the footsteps of children at play. My deep passions that glowed without polishing. The azaleas that came running with spring. The little mirror I used to see only when I turned away. The thousand reflections of myself that streamed within it. The soft, steady sound of my mother shaping trees. The bashful footsteps of my tipsy father, late at night. I once had a window through which every fearful wind of the world melted away. A window I closed—and yet through which everything still shone so vividly clear.
Of Thee I Speak
A resting place where my soul may sit or lie Where a gentle shadow lays its steady trace Day or night A story I can lean on and listen always One who holds within Like brushing leaves from a bench Even if it be but the lightest burden of passing time I long to run to you to lift it away O Thee
She Looked At Me
She looked at me and—wove and offered a smile. Like a snow-white angel. ...I was poor, and all I had were dreams, So I laid my dreams beneath your feet. -W.B. Yeats-
Gold At The Great Wall
She came to me. And at that moment, she became the only being that bore color in that place.