Love Still Waits

Bud plays requests six nights a week but his heart is far away. Some nights, while his fingers drift across the piano keys, he thinks back to the first time he saw a sheet of music. The notes looked like winged angels dancing across the page.

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The Butterfly Garden

Jill lay in bed watching the clock slip past 2 a.m. for the eighth night in a row. Her only diversion from the monotony of the flashing green numbers was an occasional kaleidoscope of light that penetrated her bedroom from a passing motorist's headlights. Some other person, awake, sharing the night with her.

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Patterns

Ruts in the dark red soil mark the patterns of life in West Africa. The walk to the well, the way to the forest for wood, share a sameness reflected in all daily tasks. An endless passage of feet and pounding of rain have driven a narrow groove deep into the earth, forcing the walker to place one foot directly in front of the other. At times the way channels so deep a man can stretch his arms and touch, at waist height, the level of the forest floor. For the African, life is the ceaseless ebb and flow of movement over the same place.

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Peregrine's Rest

First came the song, dancing on the white tips of the waves:

“A sailor is a man of the sea...
And a man of the sea he’ll always be
Now scuttle me timbers and lower me mast
Cause this sailor’s comin’ home at last.”

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