I stare out to the blanket of stars
painted across the night
and I feel the calling of home
somewhere out in the distance
beyond the reach
and touch of my fingertips
but so deeply rooted
into the beat and rhythm
of my heart
and to what distant glimmering light
have i been torn
from what star was my blood born
and how long before I return

and I have had my homes here on earth
in the faces and names
that I have found love
on the beds and the couches
I have slept and crashed
as a king
and a peasant
and lover and friend
I have lived in houses
made of wood
and hearts made of blood and soul

and yet it is always the stars
that leave me longing
for the home that is away
and inside my bones

The three kind mice
are the oldest of the old
the wisest of the wise
the kindest of the kind

The first of all life
the first of all mice
the first of Hempstock blood

They see without seeing
they know without knowing
they give without expecting

They gave the tick and the tock
to the hands of the clock
and the sand to the wind
and the glass to the hour
and time its name and its nature

They gave the moon
the blanket of night
and the lullaby of stars
and the ocean the warm breath
and goodnight kiss of the sun
and dream its name and its season

They gave the tree
the root and the trunk
and the trunk the branch
and the  branch the leaf
and life its name and its being

They gave the heart
a rhythm and a beat
and a home beneath
flesh skin and bone
inside of all that would be
and love its name and its reason

for me
  
    ever since my mother died
    on the day spring began
    eleven years ago

my joy over the annual reburgeoning of life
also evokes the memory of death

I know
death is unique and final
     spring is eternal

but all the lovely flowers sprouting forth
always remind me of my mother’s love
of flowers and all other natural beauties
like sea shells  pine cones  precious stones …

maybe it was appropriate
    after all
for her to leave this earth
when it brought forth new life again
    bursting into renewal
as if to compensate us
for our loss

If I was looking for beauty
I wouldn't look in the mirror.
If I wanted to see a pretty perfect face
I'd look at some cousin's old dolls.

If I was looking for perfection,
A face unspoiled and clean
There would be a thousand places I could look
But I will never look at myself

If I'm looking in the mirror,
I'm looking at an injury
Or a stain,
Or a wound
I never see anything remotely beautiful in the mirror
Not unless someone's standing next to me
And it's funny,
People have called me beautiful before
Only for me to snort so loudly
For me to laugh in genuine confusion
And sarcastically agree.
I don't call myself modest
I'm simply asking for honesty
I've never cared about
What my face looks like
How ugly I am
or how pretty I'm not
Surely, there's something more important
To compliment someone with
All a face is
Is a way to recognise a friend
All a body is
Is how to describe the guests to expect

The only disadvantage to not caring
Is that I doubt I'd care
If something were truly wrong.