Michael Rastovich

With wine you see you never know
exactly what you’ll get.

It’s good to know no matter what
It will always get you lit.

We pause to paint the splendor,
the world, the weather, the wild abandon

Our shortfalling shame
becomes our reverance

oh Light, we have failed you,
let our reaching be our worship

I do not have much. Some of the best things I do not have is a shovel, a ladder and a lawn mower.

Woman is empty and longs to be filled.

Man stands alone and hopes to come in from the cold.

We can not speak of God. We can only speak of men.

While we may be unfinished, we are always complete.

The best we can ask for, is for Her to stand in our place.

I am reminded of moutain rise and glacial fall. Of seasons and centuries and time beyond all counting. How this stone came to be a lying at my feet.

Every stone has a story that you haven’t time to know. But you may remember, being there, when it first began to snow.

His own voice was nothing but croaks and gargles. All gravel and snot. But he had a peculiar talent, a particular gift where he could cover the songs of others note for note. Every trill and flourish in perfect pitch.

He became quite a sensation after the great collapse and filled the grandest theaters in the greatest cities throughout the world.

Eventually though the the crowds began to thin and the venues got smaller and small still, until this night the curtain rose to an audience of one and he knew, this was his last show.

He held nothing back that night. He gave it all. It was his best show ever, performed for one lonely old man seated center, second row back who never stirred, whose shirt was soaked with tears.

When the final curtain finally fell he remembered every show. The crowds, the applause, the adulation, the ovations. And as he stepped into the slient dawn, he knew he would remember this show most. The last show, for the last man, who still remembered, there where songbirds once.

He found his self in town
All alone and naked.

He could not get alone enough
Alone is all he calls his own.

It’s the naked part
That breaks his heart.

He needs a place to hide things away,
A place to keep his brushes out.

My hope is that my blossom, but a bud, lies still yet in my heart ready to unfold if ever that golden light might fall upon it.

My fear is that the very last feather has been plucked and these wings will never know the sky.