I stretch out my arms

To the bird in the tree

The one that sings in the heart of me

I channel the sun, the light that heals

It cuts me open and soon reveals

The flesh within, a beating heart

The core of me, let mending start!

Something is out of place.
Something inherently
molecular within her
myogenic wilderness:
a modesty, an awareness,
the visible manifestation
of her shyness.
It contracts.
It tones.
It colors her
openly,
just as the sky.
Involuntary,
just as stimuli.
There's something new
about this face.
Something awakened.
Something lovestruck
and silly.
For what else
could exert such
a dilator mechanism,
in all its deliciousness?

Wintersun
entered the upstairs library,

In shifts,
heads bowed.

The flickers of remembrance
softly stroked her hair,

Until the dousing of
the final candle

Summoned nightfall
to dance at her funeral party.

Japanese gardens
Sow balance and harmony
Tall peace flowers grow

Fashioning a new crutch
For one’s old crutch

Might never heal
One’s achilles heel