Life becomes lighter
if you learn to let go
if held tighter
the self will not grow

it will be fettered
its space will be constrained
freedom will be curbed
living will be endlessly strained

Don't say:
'I can't help it'
you certainly can
if you'll keep your wit

I have yet to feel warm in this stagnant cold water,

I have yet to become my father's loving daughter.

Winter has come and gone, and I
watch the sun through pixelated
eyes.

Gliding on mildew and
mite-pungent litter, I head for
the Old Mill Pond.

I stop to linger in the shade
of mushroom caps, watching
children collect tadpoles at the
pond's edge.

The caps rain spores that stick and
spoil my ooze—Ah, a toxicity that
bloodworms and mephitic termites
find unpalatable.

Thus, I am free to sip the
aphids gathering around me.

They laid me to rest in verdant climes.

The Forest Lady was lush in Summer.

At Summer's end, her hair blazed with Fall

Palettes. Of a winter, her ice-covered arms

Glimmered overhead while her silent

White carpets rolled to frozen cathedrals.

A misty morning,
Beckons the sun.

Wavy rain clouds,
Up in the sky.

Another watercolor sunrise,
Drifting in your eyes.