the humble Ant teaches that tiny actions when gathered together
can form an ordered and successful society where the individual is valued for the contribution they make for the good of the whole.

When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?

How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,

cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?

The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.

So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:

when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—

or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—

or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?

© BT

I long for
   the sanctuary of sleep,
             my palm, relaxed,
      upon your heart
head nestled
      into the crook
            of your kindness,
slow strokes of tender
shelter from
the storms within
             thunder quelled into gentle
                as the stars fill my bones
       leading me into
forests of sweet, dark
replenishment
   scent of pine
         and loamy moss
             over my body,
forming a green –quilted
blanket of tiny-budded love
my fingers planted deep
into the cooling soil,
sprouts unfurling
crickets in night chant
fireflies a-whirl
and the bond
in our  
veins, delicate fronds
                intertwined yet      
                       giving space
                   to breathe,
simply breathing
lungs expanding
in the cracked
wood tranquil
of mountain air
hushed rush  
For now,
through panes of glass
          the moon
                 casts a watchful eye
                              caressing my
                          sadness with
            her woven strobes
                                        of
                                light