Dear, if you are cold
I will knit you a sweater
From every strand of my heart

Dear, if you are scared
I will knit another one for the monsters in your head
And together we'll hope
That the warmth will help to make the wounds hurt a little less for them
So they won't have to squeeze as hard
And they can just gently hold your hand

And then maybe
We can all hold hands together
Watch the world
And do nothing but be alive

My dear friend, if you feel like you're poetry
And the world doesn't even know their letters
I will write a book with you
From the pages of soul

Dear, if you feel alone
I'll show you that book
So you'll finally know

Will you knit a sweater for my monsters?

There is Morning Fog
Sometimes

There is Illumination
After Noon
Sometimes

If Clarity were Constant-

How would We Know?

It’s Sunday morning
Folks are out
Going to and fro
Shopping
Having breakfast
Drinking coffee

It’s Sunday morning
Folks are out
Running errands
Being with friends
Drinking coffee
People watching

It’s Sunday morning
Streets are busy
With people walking
To and fro
Meeting friends
Reading newspapers

It’s Sunday morning
In the city
Time to be mellow
Contemplate
The coming week

Late October,
and they have assuredly returned.

A canopy of clusters.

At second glance
the leaves on the trees are wings.

Whisper into the dreamscape
for they sense your voice.

Revive them with your breath.

Hold out your hand
like you hold out hope.

The warm sound of flutterings.

Circadian clocks in their antennae,
a sense of where they've been
and where they are going.

The gift from their Creator
moves them in the right direction.

Those
Who have
the most to say

Usually
say the least

Paralyzed by the unknown, lost in shadow, how can I find the fissure where light might pierce this gloom? It presses in – a void that steals the air, leaving me breathless in the emptiness. Doubt, a fragile seed, sprouts even here in the suffocating dark. Where is the conduit for truth? How can it be brought forth? Is the only passage forged in fire? Must I consume myself, offer my own being as the flame, hoping its sacrifice illuminates the way forward?

I'm mature at times and immature at lengths
I need to keep my tongue to go off a roll
I regret a breath later, I'll regret it till the end
So hard is to make do, my assessment calls
I need to think through it, the pitfalls
Blink and compute, what comes from the mouth
Is it true, kind and necessary?
Am I calm, steady and ready?