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Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,

but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.

A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.

And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.

Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:

You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.


Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.

Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.

Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.

She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed

She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.

She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.

Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.

Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.

Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.

Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.

She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.

And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel

the quiet echo
of someone still with her.

Let the flower breathe the free air
  and  she  will  sing...


"In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
Far from the madness, that folds around me
Peaceful and gentle, like sails on the breeze

In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
There's a warm light on a cold night
And clean cotton sheets
Soap smellin' skin and tinglin' feet
With stars linin' the skyline
And shine through the trees

In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
And when the autumn comes down
We'll get what we need from the town
And all of our friends will be round

In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea
Moon white as paper and night black as sleep
With old things behind us and new things to be

In an old house on a hillside
Next to the sea

And when the sunshine comes down
My hair will turn golden
And my skin will turn brown

And all of our friends will be round"

https://youtu.be/FPQyn36gzlY?si=B5mtweJP3pbu6jqO

#MattersoftheHeart
Powder-white and goose-bumps
in the rain.

You slide down my throat like a...

My numbing mouth,
the flashing lights.
I can't control
my sleep tonight.
Love and hatred descend
in a hierarchy, unraveling
from above—where sun
and moon once kissed,
and love began.

  The sky wrote love—
before we could name it
kiss of the cosmos
Don't regard
me a poet
I'm not
perhaps never
to qualify
as one-
a solemn truth

still swimming
in the sea
of words
often struggling
to keep
my head
above water
to escape
drowning

so
don't call
me a poet
I'm only still
a weaver
of sentiments
a learner
from the Masters
a lone traveller
in the desert
in search
of self
to place
myself
right in
fitting words

yet
I despair not:
it's enough
to have
into such
ventured
a stray found your pack
you let her in, she attacked
do you regret it?
Lyle 6d
those shorts fit you last summer
she says
you've lost weight
she observes
you didn't weigh enough to begin with
she barks
are you eating
she asks
you can't afford to miss a meal
she shouts
finish all your food
she demands
she acts like she cares
but in reality
the only reason she noticed
was because she was told
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