The Vale Angles Toward Hope

Well the breeze of fall is kicking up and the vale is angled toward hope. Leaves are fluttering in the hot and turgid air, brown leaves, dead leaves, crucified by the sun and the strangulation of domesticity. Things here are boiling down, the pot is no longer overflowing. Life seems more manageable now than not. The Father of Lights has rained down his refreshing beams on us and a wind of life has been prophecied into our dry bones.
It looks like we'll be in a house by Christmas barring unforseen escrow complications. A house with a beautiful view of desert hilly wilderness, hiking trails, and MegansLaw convicts. The fire has died down a little, our pocket linings are moving back toward the pants instead of sticking out as they were. Babies are beautiful angels sent here to pacify us into love and impatience.
Dreams of serial killers, struggles at work, pink insides jutting out like a hamster's coughed-up intestines. The leaves are settling on the ground now, the air is drawing for the big Santa Ana blow and life is going from fire to simple static electricity.
May the Lord bless our broken, yet hopeful, home.

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