there are times when,
sitting alone in the peaceful garden of the mind,
a few words come together,
that seem to have no meaning,
until they are said out loud.
they form a phrase,
a mantra,
a code,
a philosophy -
a way of looking at things that suddenly makes sense,
and it's not always good - you have to look out for those ones.

but when it is good,
and the words drip from your tongue like fresh honey from the comb,
and it reaches in,
deeper than you thought it could,
and grabs the root of you,
holding fast and shaking with a rapturous violence
unlike anything you've ever felt,
you look on the page or screen
and know instantly
that it is beautiful,
and that it came from inside you.

the sun rises up behind me,
casting longer shadows on the pavement
for me to chase,
a new day,
a new image,
a superhero form done by Picasso or Van Gogh,
everything there, but perception slightly off,
proportions differ,
but i see something there
that is new -
untiring, sure,
cadence strong and confident,
in a way i have never known before.
who i've been is still there -
it is my cover,
my secret identity,
the private face of a public superhuman.
all i need is the uniform.

it started this morning,
a rhythmic tapping on a tree not far away,
the percussive march-beat of the woodpecker,
followed by a syncopated chirping,
and the occasional flutter of wings
before the chorus of chickadees chimes in,
the morning symphony that greets the sunrise.
Even in the city, nature's
six-ounce orchestra is present and performing,
if one only tunes the ear to drown out the
concrete sounds of man.

nothing changes, really,
but in that small moment,
a few words make all the difference -
make the light a little brighter,
and life a little sweeter,
give the strength to continue,
and courage, too -
courage to hope and believe that
no matter what,
all will be well.

my young mind knew not what i was saying,
so many years ago on a stage i used to own,
where my heart and soul were put forth
so many times.
would that i could return to then,
oh, the performance i might give,
with the understanding of years,
what "compact imagination" means.
but, would the audience know it -
would they feel what i do now,
would it make sense to them?
would they see the devils, or Helen, or heaven,
or all?
which title would i have?
i have been all three.
perhaps that's why the words stick with me today -
i have been living them all along.

there is a place i know,
where back in a hollow,
the crisp cool water runs over the boulders of ages past,
the evidence of a time no one remembers,
but everyone can see.
it's quiet there,
the birdsongs echo in the early mornings,
and the constant babbling of the water
soothes the spirit of those who come to walk.
i go there from time to time,
to sit in the quiet and think
and dream and pray,
for in the silence,
the answers come to those who are willing to listen
to the language of the water and the birds.

silent giant clumps fall to the ground,
beautiful and deadly,
a look celebrated in december
and loathed in april,
when the crocuses are poking through
the first of the verdant grasses
and the birds are nesting in the
just-budding trees.
outside my window,
the world freezes as it turns today,
and i long for the warm thoughts
that come to me in dreams.