Many of us were raised to look for a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and sometimes it seems to set down on someone I know, but I read Ovid now and consider how gold might be spread, and how many transitions and levels there might be in each of us as we meet each moment as it comes.

Ovid, Metamorphoses

The threads that touch seem the same, but the extremes are distant, as when, often, after a rainstorm, the expanse of the sky, struck by sunlight, is stained by a rainbow in one vast arch, in which a thousand separate colours shine, but the eye itself still cannot see the transitions.  There, are inserted lasting threads of gold, and an ancient tale is spun on the web.

It’s Veteran’s Day, a day to bow our heads as we come to understand how to speak to each other in ways that open empathic threads as ways to connect.

Leaves change and fall exposing branches that held them all

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