I have a secret...

I have a secret. A confession of sorts, not the type that will make you lose face or end in repentence. Just a little secret between me, mother nature...and now you.

When I travel to a new place, which is frequently, I like to settle in and then wait for the moment when the evening tucks it's grey blanket over the fading blush of day. Then, I kick off my shoes and pad quietly outside and walk barefoot. I also indulge in this little habit early in the morning, when the grass is wet and cool. I love to find warm spots where the yawning sun has already smiled upon the earth.

Something happens when you walk barefoot...a kind of intimacy, kisses on the toes, a thrill in your heart as if any moment you might come upon a tiny bearded man sitting on a mushroom offering you a sip of port from a whittled mug.

I have dug my toes into the ash of a spent volcano, examined my steps etched in a million grains of sand, dried my toes on the orange stones of Utah, and felt the dew of cushioned steps alighted on the moss of Williamsburg. A hundred years of history becoming my pedestal.

So now you know, my little secret.

Poetic, but not a poet.

I fancy myself to be a bit poetic. I think everyone at one time or another feels poetic. If they don't, then that is sad because anytime you are inspired beyond repair you should feel poetic. Even if nothing comes out of your mouth. So the people who have never felt poetic, have never been inspired beyond repair and in their brief wisp of life they have missed 'it'.

I digress.

I fancy myself to be a poetic person, but not a poet. Words are constantly tumbling out of my mouth and some actually tend to land on the floor in an interesting pattern with some moderate flare. This does not happen often.

I had the opportunity to visit a vineyard on my last trip. This is one of my favorite things to do when traveling. I had the luck of passing one of my favorite vineyards and I stopped in. It had been 2 years since I had been there and I had completely forgotten how stunning it was.

After I had a beautiful Riesling delivered to me, I walked to the lake and crossed the bridge where a small table beckoned me to sit and breathe and listen and see.

So I did.

And the world received my attention and in turn, inspired me beyond repair.

And I became poetic.

And words tumbled out.

The weeping willow wallowed against the sky,
As it's tendrils traced over the surface of
the waters

Undulated with the cadence of comfortable lovers,
Made so by the turning of time &
its winds

Brushed my skin cooling the drops,
Called forth from my body by
the heat

Of the sun kissed my face spreading warmth,
like the touch of a new lover & friend.

Poetic, but not a poet. And that's okay. As long as you stop and breathe and listen and capture it with your heart.