Imagine standing in a field just after a storm. The air smells new, and everything around you feels warm — the world is breathing.

You see a rainbow,
bending in the sky,
Unreachable to touch or hold
     yet you are happy,
And don’t know why;


It’s the same way you feel when you see a butterfly or hear a song  
    your heart races away
to understand the world without needing to explain it.

But to make life as art significantly longer--
       To assimilate ourselves
        to the world and to others
        to be humble, compassionate, forgiving and understanding.

     We live. We have our ups and downs.  We hope or wait for something.  Finally, We die,
     and are born again but
We remember nothing.

And everything begins from scratch.
May everything come true.
May, they believe.

And may they laugh at their passions, But above all
  Let them believe in themselves.
  Let them be helpless children
  For weakness is a great thing Because what has hardened will never win.

In a vast, barren landscape
  the sky keeps its oranges and
  purples, until nearly
  understanding isolation
  in eyes heavy with unspoken
  thoughts preparing to reveal.

Rake a plow across the dry soil with bare fingers, dirt caking
as in a mirror--
this act of cultivating the soul—
    each dig is slow and deliberate,
    conveying struggle and toil,
earth is tough, reluctant to yield.

The sea is glazing over, reflecting a flicker of distant light, perhaps fire or stars, to symbolize a revelation, the small hints of something greater beyond them,
cut rapidly into being human.

Show me a field of dormant plants in the ploughed earth,
   imaged we are soon tangled
   roots beneath the  deep unseen realms.

My muffled sound
a heartbeat over the quiet rustle of wind or soil—barely perceptible,
—drawing a parallel between 
the rhythm slow. methodical.

Nearly confronting the cliff's edge in a fog-covered expanse,
There’s no clear direction,
  Where paths are invisible
the inevitable finality of death.

Torn into peices
Life moves away
    my follicles follow,
    Laying finger to unbutton
    in shades blouse silhouette
  
 The water well spat into
  sloped cottage flows down
    forgotten things to prepare
    naught enough time to think
    To hope in soul's certainty.