Capitola by the sea, it’s quaint smallness and charm, our footprints on every cobbled stone and brick. A coastal village on the edge of the sea, warm summer breezes of evening, the lovers strolling the turnaround streets, window shopping; dreaming.
Heavens Culver’s have blanketed the nights sky with a distant quilting of stars, the soft sound of peace drifts up, our humble home, our rustic and welcoming porch we sit. Complines, the evening song of the breathing hamlet below, warms our hearts as we watch the tailings of the sun’s withdrawal from the days matters.
Endlong our Love, from the beginning to the end it will be this way, my Fere, my companion of heart and soul, to sit with you, to feel your hand in mine; my only wish at the end of every day answered.
Below, the street lights line the curb, storefronts glisten, headlights white, the taillights fade in their journey away; but we are home.
There is one who kisses, and the other who offers the cheek.” -French proverb
One of life’s sweetest blessings savored, tucked neatly in the heart; for each kiss from from your tender lips is stored there. There is not a mile that God has ever created, that our love cannot fill when apart; but together so immense the feeling of his gift.
Out in the yard, cast in the light of the moon, the old oak stands; our nightly visitor the Barn Owl’s raspy voice makes his presence known. Off in the distance, the coyote’s cry, the lonesome train whistle blows. The sounds of the night, travel through the canyons, the eucalyptus trees scent, our home filled with such beautiful life; Nature’s railing of life, a bathing of substane.
The embers, the flickering fireplace there, the dwindling evening hours, giving way to the predawn day ahead; twilight soon to be upon us. We bid goodnight to our friends the coyote’s, and the venerable hunter of the night our friend the Barn Owl.
The human heart, at whatever age, opens only to the heart that opens in
return.” -Maria Edgeworth, 1767-1849
We enter our bed, our embrace of warmth and comfort, dreams rise filling the room. The warm breath of loves slumber brushes soft-hued across my arm, the slightness of the moonlight filters in through our window. Your soft presence beside me, our final words for the night, I love you, oh your soft voice, so encompassing to the birth of my dreams; as the first I hear your voice in the morning gives birth to my day.
Wisdoms voicings from ages past repeated, “Who well lives, long lives; for this age of ours should not be numbered by years, days, and hours.” So it is, as our love is our pillow, it’s warmth our covers; our embrace our safekeeping in the night.
To live in the light of loves existence, between two hearts, between two souls, heavens gift of trow and probity to never part, it is the better part of eternity we will share on that beautiful day walking on God’s white sands. But for this night, we sleep, embraced in loves endearing pages of our lives together.
There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love.” -Thornton Niven Wilder, 1897-1975