ubiquitous summer night
where
bamboo butterflies
resting
their
translucent wings
upon
the
windmills and hills of Don Quixote  Spain

I'm staring at my ceiling
Overwhelmed with feeling
I know you'll text me tomorrow
And I'll respond
We'll talk far too long

Is it talking so long that makes it wrong?
Or is it how much it feels right?

Every day and night

I fight for my life.

So every morning,

I can be proud

That I succeeded at something.

We are miraculous.
Ropes of corded muscle
Intertwined—
A system so efficient
We have spent centuries
Attempting to imitate it.

We are
Astounding.
Life is a miracle
No robot
Can replace.

i wish i could see your grief,
lead them by my own two hands,
then give them a room big enough in
me to fit them and their lingering shadows.

Prayer needs a heart on fire to light the sacrifice of will enabling the sweet-smelling aroma of incense , that is pleasing to God , to rise to Heaven