Prose blossoms
orderly
like a well
tended garden
of perennials.

Poetry explodes
anarchically
like an unkempt,
ragged field
of weeds.

Purpose and
creativity
thrive in
whatever magic
kingdoms they
encounter.

Their flowers
sob with
compulsive joy.

Fall arrives.

Such Holy ruin
contains a
naked ease.

Beneath the winter
sky's scar tissue
inscrutable love
and the whispered
promise of warmth
insist on new words
which tremble
like the rattles
of sleepy snakes.

The earth owes us
that simple pleasure
beyond the darkening
solstice shivers.

Words and flowers
express true emotion
to the genuine kernel
of our being physical.

At possibilities edge
there looms a human limit.

Not every heart
can bear to beat
forever as a  metaphor.

Speech of no word
and word of no speech.

Thought is only
an abstract labyrinth
reminding us
of the earth's
thin patience.

Flesh is needed
to pump out life.

Blood cries out
for its own
sticky human
sweetness.

mce