Spindles, white, and notched with slate grey
Rise to meet, and blush to be seen
By the Star-gaze, unclouded.
They glow in thanks for such
Glorious recognition
Their pearlescent sheen is
A testament to the power
Of a warm and honest gaze.

the legacy of a color
streaked in violet haze,
echoes through shifty hues:
the spread expanse of sky,
never placed in blue.
white, perhaps, or almost red—
flicker and fade,
and never named.

my bowl

pale earth tan

rimmed with sky

was so full

of beauty

that it had

to break


when it burst

against the

stony ground

all the kind

and simple mornings

spent cradled in

my grateful

grateful hands

vaulted forth

into the air

like a firework

of catastrophic

and necessary

beauty


and i know

that i too

must break

every day

to let

the beauty of

my kind mornings

burst against

the stony ground

of the lonely

lonely world

to release

my grateful bliss

to the tan

earth and the

ever rimmed sky

that strong trunk that so supports the sweeping
twine of festive arms that extend and sway and lace
a pattern of perpetual growth and firm embrace
even and especially in its strength, its firm resolve,
it lets down great drapery of sweet lament
to sway in the whispering air of times passed and endured,
of pains harbored and tended and stored deep in the roots
of the ever weeping tree

What then, is a walk?
is it many muscles pulling bone
is it neurons firing without thought
is it intention,
(or is it not)
is it simply a means to destination
is it repetition till a pattern wrought
is it important,
(or is it not)

if a walk is only menial, offering no solace or
warmth or soft flutterings of aliveness,
if a walk is purely liminal, only a meager bridge
between destinations of questionable importance,
if a walk does not hold the destination wrapped
in each step and especially between-step,
then may I never walk again.

Have you ever tried to carry the weight of the dead?
Have you tried to lift the weight of
The mangled heaps of smothered souls that
In life held hopes and careful joys
And in quietus are absent but yet linger still
Living we number billions,
But the dead multiply in our yesterdays
The only remnants of the complex, or simple,
Lives now lost and left
How much of our earth composed of marrow and body  
Now heavier with no soul to uplift and spring forth
Stagnant weight

How many of our ancestors lie in rigid frames
Still, still in the chamber of dark breathless space
That keeps their bones, their decayed flesh
From bringing forth life again
How many trees have sought that nutrient rich cave
But found only metal and hard polished wood
To deny their gentle ask
  
Must it be this heavy?

This heart, the seed—
Firm encased in umber shell,
Life force, vitality concentrated—
My center, my core.
Then this flesh body the stem, the leaves,
The grand expression, the spreading plumes.
My ribs, the roots that plunge the air for life
To stir into the seed heart
And send out to this flesh body the
Good good news of ample breath!

I recognize the hues of growth in my skin—
The viridian, the sap, the ochre with marine,
This is the color of change, and of spreading,
And of seeking light and finding nourishment.
This is the color of flourishing,
And it is traced in careful moments
Woven into my skin
Like wind in the green green trees.