I sing to you the way a butterfly sings to a still flower
I sing to you in the midst of winter as your petals wither
I sing not just to you but to the wind that shakes your stem and to the sun the feeds your belly, when I sing there is water in my breathe and the flower’s  carbon
food on my exhale
I sing because to sing is to nourish the earth; it is to breath with the everything
at once

She has died
40 books swirl in our hands
As we pass them from friend to friend
During dim light living room conversations
Or read them to our beloved ones to whom we wish
Could understand

We are perfumed by her once presence and uplifted
To know that transformation and love are the ways
The most meaningful of acts

The base of my spine was tilted causing everything that stacked above it to be miss aligned
any shoulder so stiff when that when pressed on they would not crack
“Are you pain?” He asked
He began to try and relax the muscles and crack my bones back into place

Your beauty was not invented your beauty was given

Given at birth when you opened your eyes
present before your name was lined up in any mind
a truth that is what your beauty is

my dear tender eyes
the smallest things are the greatest things
disguised by nothing
their beauty standing on its own and like truth
it can only be recognized
so my dear tender eyes take my hand and can you feel we are made of that same tenderness that tilts towards love

A million splendid subs could not quench my hunger for words so I tried to look outside “when the spirit catches you” pages and found life more alluring than any page
for creative then any hand to pen

I so sweetly give into my heart and my being who see no limits
who dream dreams bigger than I could ever find tucked in the furthest closet of my being
They are guides and I follow their flashlight that flickers through the forest and the city and I meet them at night and in the morning to join hands and write