Her branches hung low
to the ground
They brushed the dirt
that they sat upon
How beautiful is pain
when it grows
It has a way to hang
those gentle woes.

See that tree all alone
yet so full?

Her shadows weep
in the bristles of doom
Then the sun comes to play
in the cold bushy monsoon.
As gusty sighs sway her eyes
to greet the galloping moon.

The bouquet of flowers
Your note attached
Flew into my arms
In a tall vase to match
Their dying embrace
As you wrote to me
Fell deep inside
Are petals you see

That still smell
Oh so beautifully
Even though
They were drying
Then dying
Oh so subtly

Inner peace and prosperity
must be free,
to bear true born fruits
of a balanced tree.

I inhale as you speak  
And the fresh smell of grass returns
There will be a summer day
When my inner layers burn
And as they mow what’s dead away
I'll gleam as work pays off
For dripping, sparkling copper skin
Is how the light entranced the moth.

Poetry is the string
         looping through and
         weaving out
the needling pain

It knits a beautiful
         patchwork, coated with
         colorful patterns
our fingers trace

threads of our lives
         create designs
a shining::
shimmering::
or dulling
our emotions blend.

Turning table of bare skin and plaster
Sitting model of perfections mastered
Brushing every layer on blank sheets
Watering eyes for moisture in basking heat

Now cry those pictures prettier than me
Wash away what flaws replay then flee
Creating beauty; an authentic frisson
Until the truth is unmasked to glisten

Strokes of warmth into lustrous mellow
Let me shine then fade a sweeter yellow
Add finishing touches on the drying husk
Then marvel at the paint of dawn to dusk.