My childhood was spent in the country, just at the bend of a cavity-filled gravel road and flanked by pastures and paddocks.  Front yards weren’t made to be manicured because acres were able to be roamed.  Fence posts and platte lines didn’t matter much, as borders were more like open doors to further fields.  And I could most often be found tucked into one of those farther away places. Those fields loved forts and I made plenty within shafts of wheat and upon a tattered, well-traveled blanket.  If I placed the blanket just right upon durum strands stretched over a little patch of earth for my cause, the still standing crops would bend slightly enough to offer me shade while wielding a window to the generous blue sky above. Ever accompanying me into these spots were book and spiral, with pen secured in the spun silver binding.  I read, wrote and wondered in these secret spots.  Each moment nestled inside was a bit like being a needle in a hay stack, hard to find, but Heaven-held. Between walls and behind closed doors there was much that didn’t make sense. But beneath wispy clouds and within wind’s breath, all was before me to comprehend.  The girl that didn’t add up inside fell right into place cradled in ...
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Cessor Journals | April 16, 2021