She is strong
She pulled herself through strong winds,
Roots gripping the earth, refusing to break.
She survived with little care,
Drinking from the silence,
Holding on when no hands reached out.

She never complained about the thirst,
Welcoming the sun, even when it burned.
She learned to bloom in shadows,
Happy with the little attention she received.

She stayed, even when neglected,
Spreading fresh air to breathe,
A silent companion when no one else was around.
A quiet strength, unseen yet unwavering.

She stopped withering away.
She adapted.
She grew.
She became more than survival—
She became life itself.

I may not believe in a god(s)
But that does not mean that I do not have a religion

I believe in poetry

Is it worth all the worry,
The tension, the cost,
The poor sleep and fatigue,
The happiness lost.

The what if's or maybe,
Will it happen or not,
Worry is wandering,
It never will stop.

So learn to accept,
Your life is a scene,
A chapter, some improv,
On a three dimensional screen.

Those you will love,
And some you will lose,
Each day is a painting,
Worry works as my muse.

You say “maybe,” but I say “we’ll try,”  
Through the rain, through the pain, we’ll get by.  
I see your broken pieces, and still, I stay—  
Not to fix, but to love you along the way.  

In every “what if,” I’ll hold you near,  
Not for answers, but for love to clear  
The storm you carry, the doubt you fear—  
Together, we’ll stand, no need to disappear.

Luminous and luscious she shines.
Every day he feels closer,
to that scenic byway life,
the inspirational proposer.

Elegant, light lady, no rationed spirit she is.
Night’s sacred, silent co-worker,
for the work that lay ahead
for this proud and weary dream lurker,
Longing for his truth to be said.

Sustenance he found in the moon’s warm, insulated snow.
For she cast all his sorrows to hell,
Like the Christian story of original sin.
FOR hell, he had been, and TO hell he should go,
If not, he keeps her soft, transcendent light for him,
always in his sky, aglow.