Words
(rich and round)
(crisp and flat)
were always there
(they didn't know their names)
gaining density
(eddying, circling)
until the instant
(big bang)
of creation.
Set free
(not to be denied)
they scramble insistently
(interrupting sleep)
inexplicably drawn to scraps of paper
(intriguingly familiar)
arranging
(and rearranging)
themselves
(connecting)
assembling
(fragments)
into artful patterns
and, like starlight,
illuminating.
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Alyson Button Stone
(Come Explore With Me . . .)
Alyson Button Stone
About My Journey
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My daughter's art on flickr
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
--William Butler Yeats
My daughter's art on flickr
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
--William Butler Yeats
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Copyright 2010. The content on these pages, including most of the text and most images, are the sole property of the author, and may not be reproduced in any manner without consent. All Rights Reserved. I welcome comments and suggestions regarding technology and content.
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