vision so vital
to all a poet is;
silent beauty whispers
its miracles only
to those listening.

the poet cursed
with eyes and ears
the clamor of
a living, dying world
inundates
their soul

finding refuge
from the deluge
in a quiet stream of stanzas

never realizing the blessing
of the eye of the poet

until all the words have dried

The leaves will change
And fall to our feet
The winds will blow
Let the branches meet

Crisp morning air
To fill the lungs
Of townspeople walking
Warmed by the sun

Yet still our paths
May not yet cross
Lest we bathe
In seas of loss

The world still turns
So trapped in place
Stuck longing just
To touch your face

even all things
formed and hardened
subject themselves to change
and to be changed
for what is
cannot refuse the weathering-
deciding to stay the same
letting the same form remain.

yet they will try
to mask the craters
in their complexion-
some will die
before admitting
some roots have severed connections-
for none like to look back
and see that
what has past
is true;
for admitting all the past acts
or the rough patch
can mean some pain lasts
in their view-

but we are all bruised and cracked deep in our bones
with lasting acts that won’t leave us alone
we were made to break at some point in time
but that doesn’t mean that pain controls our lives-
and even when change leaves us in the dark
and we miss home so much with it’s warming heart,
there is a light shining it’s brilliant warmth
and if we just trust, I know that we can still have life in our storms.