In snowy peaks
and gray valleys
grassy plains
and lower back pain
the falls
and rivers of grief
thorny branches of the bois d’arc tree
the womb
of a lily or a lady
pioneers and sinners
losers and winners
on the road
in the heart of home
what you imagine
and what you dream.

I am on the tense edge of fatigue
its gray snare
its numb mute grip
squeeze out  
my vigor.

My mind is plowed with deep furrows
a thousand canals
through which hapless fantasy
rushes with such ease.
But on occasion
when I least expect it
the realms rain upon that soil
sprout seedlings
that glisten and giggle
turn this way and that
wild and tender
and full of life.

It cracks me open -
this time with music and muse.
My pen punctures a hole
through a membrane
of routine and lazy habits
into my darkness
stale air escapes.
This writing lets in light and life
it is water on soil
a flowering.

Piano and violins
in the hands of artists
string me along
in a peaceful stream of joy
their delicate threads
wrapped around my heart
on a gray morning
to quince my loneliness.

Away on a short but long trip into pain
my absence brought
a keen yearning for our union
so now we touch
I breathe in your aroma
my heart throbs with joy
and gratitude
for this rich vibrant presence.

Lightning and thunder
herald the strong arm of nature
awaken me to Earth.
Rains soak soil
and now I walk in the garden
green, pink, and magenta life surrounds me
its aroma suffuses my lungs
my beath makes us one -
this magnificent living orb and I.