He speaks the language of flowers
Quietly toiling in his garden
Digging, raking and smoothing soil,
Gently coaxing nature to match his vision.
He knows the bees, spiders, beetles, worms and earwigs
Regarding them as friends.
He follows seasons, moon and stars
As others do people
Enthralled at the changes they bring.
He listens as the birds sing
Watching with joy as
Fledgling take wing.

Time with means
Real routes of simplicity
True to our senses, and the irony we glean
As shrewd as a call to it is, the role of indemnity

Places we hid, a source of bright news
Tastes of humility and dour forces, to live
With a grossing guess, the exaction of an excuse
Well to say, the known desire of almost, even and is

Torture to an average soul, waiting in another's light
Tradition and the marvel of success, a toil in cares
So far away from the risen more, right now, might
The collapse of heaven, in our hands be the gift that fairs?

Weak treasure, in the name of a doting virtue
Taken for a fool every time, if a lip has seen it all
In the grip of enemy's sublime, or the muster of curiosity
Known to be, the guidance of essences and riches, of the fall...

Worthy little key, saving me from a lucky reality
Paces of in and its atone, to live once more, is my stead
The count of urges and the jump to sight's welling in heat?
Of a new friendship of labor, if not the callous reproach, we saw us, in the cares we lead...

My mind is like a full sink,
        sometime I just
                    need to empty it.

Because the words
                I washed up in,
            left a residue that needed
to cleaned out
                          every so often.

Drunk on the nectar
Crinkled wings the butterfly still
One last sip savoured