“It’s never too late to stop look listen to your heart hear what it’s saying,” are words from the song originally recorded (1971) by Philadelphia soul group The Stylistics, “Stop, Look, Listen (To Your Heart).”
It’s a soul song.
It’s a love song.
It’s a never-too-late song.
We know.
We stopped, restfully, on hands and knees examining the delicate structure of the pink purslane, or kiss-me-quick.
We did.
We looked, closely, at the delicate and fragile rising and then falling veins of the wild bleeding heart, similarities found in the Appalachians of Tennessee (where she’s from) and in the forest woodlands of the Pacific Northwest (where I’m from). The wild bleeding heart is a symbol of romance, of those in love.
We are.
We listened to the laughing, chortling water as it bubbled on by, turning this way and that as it found its way through the forest of trees, weaving down and around and under an occasional tangle of logs, small waterfalls created in its journey to the sea.
Mystical and magical were these glistening waters in the late afternoon sun, someone describing its meandering and music as “the rhythmic flow of vibrant emerald green waters.”
Sheer happiness was the sound of this little stream and beautiful were the tiny flowers along its banks.
Where we stopped, looked, and listened with our heart.
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