Paco Pena remembering quiet moments. Maybe he was with his woman on a beach. Maybe Paco Pena was throwing a frisbee to his dog. Maybe he had moments of introspection about the day on the beach with his dog and his woman. Maybe the dog had moments of her own. And his woman, she sure had moments, holding the wine glass, fruit squeezed into juice fermented into sunshine distilled by queendoms of bees, creatures of it all.
How some songs elicit thoughts of quiet times. How some sound elicits thinking about quiet, distilled quiet. How velvet of quiet can be found with velvet of sound.
How I would like to find in everything so much which yields like jewelweed sprouting seed into my fingers, my eyes irises to meet and greet. I’d make so many places for bees to comb and want to be the combing, the bees, the flower and the crops, too. This is the place of sun spun tissues.
~ Lady