A hundred souls have now been called,
Finalists for the one way trip to Mars;
They wait again for numbers to be culled
So they can take a place among the stars.

Knowing they can not return,
Still they choose to feel the thrusters burn,
The first to leave their mother, Earth
Prodigal children, these, their birth to spurn.

And so they wait while science catches up
To give them air and food and liquid sup,
Suspended on their way so they can stand
In thinner air and orange rock and arid sand.

The universe, expanding as it goes, for Earth
Waits patiently as we climb the ladder to the sky
To test the science and find an astral birth,
The outer limit of our human quest for why.

And when we stand some day on rocky Mars
Dissatisfied, we'll look out past old Sol
Peering out for paths to other stars,
The restless quest still burning in our souls.

I drove four miles this evening
Down the road to see the miracle
Of pastures greening.

They'd come to life this Spring
To lick the rivulets of melting snow,
Lichens before wild grasses, glistening,
But then a blistering summer blow
Came to patch their roots.

Just last week a quarter inch of wet
Fell from a Treasury on high
To tell the famished carpet,
"Wait a while! Storm clouds are nigh!"

And yesterday a full wet inch
Of heaven's grace and mercy flowed
From the billowed Throne's high bench
To rally grassy supplicants to grow.

Thick, dense,
pine tree
forests, ash
grove trees
line the creek

where tree leaves
mask the summer
sky,
dance in their
canopy

the dirt is red
and green
and mud and
soft beneath our
shoes

I never meant to
push you, love,
or live trapped in there
with you.

It is such an enormous privilege
to have access to fresh, wholesome, healthy food
at my fingertips,
the garden I built at full bloom in
my backyard

fresh spinach basil kale lettuce onions

much like your love is on the tip of my tongue

to eat and drink in the presence of You
is to experience pure pleasure -
                                           pure joy

a bowl of fresh strawberries
         a warm omelette bursting with sweet and spicy aroma

they tell me I should open a restaurant
        they tell me that my cooking is like a meal dipped in gold

but the food never tastes as good
      without you smiling at me

without you holding me in a soft sway
                to the music
                                           in our mouths

     without you
                                     life is bland

Cows across the road
like to stand on a small hillock
and stare at the scenery

They seem fascinated
watching their fellows
from a different perspective

Gray skies upward fling
In the vap'rous breath of Spring
Melting mounds of snow
Trickling rivulets slow

Lines of feathered travelers
Nature's hope inspiring harbingers
Vee Northward o'erhead
Calling high and loud and long
Their ceaseless journey song.


Houses buried far below
Including the one we own
Beneath the weight of heavy snow
Crack complainingly and groan,
Wait with unknowing strain
Warm sun's shine to own.

The cradle that joins
your rough throat of stubbled skin
to the flesh of your clavicle
holds in it the earth's ends,
                                            (and the universe is contained
in the lengths of your arms).

It was dry and barren
when first we met, but
I have watered it
                            gently, c a r e f u l l y
every day, with my eyes,
and buried my nose in your chest.

It has grown, a lush
garden. Now, fuller than ever before.
             But it is my garden,
             do not forget-
I will twist its vines 'round your
                                             heart.

With my hands on my hips
I looked back at the job that was just completed
All day in the field
Plowing and sowing
The suns beam was strong
There wasn't any wind
Just the hot glaring sun
My mouth was dry
Lips were parched
Back was tired
And my feet were aching
As I sighed and walked away
I was happy, pleased
And convinced
That life don't get no better than this

Weeds are
my favorite plants.
Their bad reputations
attract me the most.
They persevere.
They are successful.
They teach me to disdain
the world's opinions.
They remind me it is good
to be on earth
for no other reasons than
the joy of sunshine and rain.
They live on the edge
where everything
interesting happens.
I am very much a **** myself.
Weeds are something you
can count on to be there.
Not many such anchors
in one life. Take a hold;
pull one out. It will be back.
Count on it.

  ~mce

The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.