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.

That year caterpillars ate
The Cabbages-

No soup but
A flighty crop

Of White-Winged
Butterflies

Shallow porcelain dish
Survivor of Centuries
Traveller on creaking wooden boat
Shipwrecked and unbroken yet
Barnacled and weeded
Fragility
Sound of a Bell beneath the Ocean

Whales look up, astonished
Decide to beach themselves

Becoming Human,
They will regret the air

one bolt left,
not for sale as a whole.

yet carefully cut, sewn, packed,
the small room, it is available
to share.

have you heard his voice
high over mountains, repeating.

do you like this cloth, tradition weaves,
these old skills.

having told him this, the work continues.

The world is an
orphan's broken toy.
Heart like a ferrel hog,
untamed by cages and
starvation.

The depth of misery and
elation sink dripping teeth
into ripe peaches.

Come on in.
Ignore the floating, bloated
bodies.
There's a pool of Shalom
somewhere.
We all want to be healed.