Not every day is a good day
for the made up man.
Some days,
he makes up words,
revealing on paper,
what they were made for,
a handsome vest, or a satin hat,
for a velvet woman,
Or maybe just, a cross-eyed cat.
Other days,
the made up man,
may see paper dragons,
afloat in his mind,
and then set about to find,
some colorful fabric of life.
He checks the air,
not knowing where, to look,
yet feeling strong,
that it must be right.
But most days,
neither idea, nor material,
present their wealth,
these then are the hard days,
for the made up man.
Because these are the days,
When he must,
re-make himself.

---

fuzzy denizens of desert
strange, unearthly, every one
they wake up softly to the morning
reaching up to find the sun

saguaros, huge, regal, majestic
silent in their special ways
pincushions the size of quarters
brush protect from the sun's rays

from the blazing heat of noontime
to the freezing winter's gloom
these living jewels survive the onslaught
even burgeoning with blooms!

looking out from my front porch there
I see a bird who's home is made
within the side of a saguaro
within its chicks get warmth and shade

I see beavertail and golden barrel
mammalaria in special pots
lining up along the ledges
of where I sit, my favorite spot

before the sun has even risen
this is my safe and holy place
then i feel the creeping warmth
of the sun upon my face

this is where I worship singing
though the neighbors find it odd
this is where I thank my Maker
this is where I talk to God



SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/11/2016