Five, seven, five, held in
Syllabic prison, save me
Subjectivity

On the verdant field,
Where stone flowers grow, spirit
And human rejoin

Ah revelation.
Morning sky opens, red, gold
Pen falls from my hand

Today I saw a flower,
A rose,
I did not look at the rose,
I saw the rose.
A yellow rose just opened,
The petals straight in a spiral,
Slightly flared at the tips.
“Beautiful” is subjective,
Who am I to label the rose?
Seeing the rose,
The intricacy of creation,
An explicable force,
That formed the rose,
That formed me.
I was filled with wonder.
Awe,
A sense of belonging
All this I would have missed
If I looked at the rose.

The sound of the clink of two bottles,
I’m transported in time and space,
Sunday morning throwing out Saturday night.
Hot summer’s nights with friends in the backyard sharing stories and dreams.
Giggles dribbling down from children pretending to be asleep on the big bed.
Snapped back,
I’m graveside,
Early morning throwing out yesterday.

She took the tip in her slender fingers.
It glowed as she drew a breath, her red lips forming a kiss lighting her cigarette.
How our love ignited into a blaze on the embers of past romances
I ***** the **** out

I am surrounded by the beautiful mosaic of people
Each fitting into their place
A harmonious tiled portrait of kinship
My sides do not run true
I am alone