At which hill
Will the wind crest

Retreat to still,
Recaptured breath

How deep the sea
Churns calling cold

Raptured bells of
Sunken churches toll

If ever there were
Predestined plateau

Where promised peace
Could erase the chain—

But the wind again billows
And once more, the rain

Sixteen pages now covered
in my swirly writing,
untouched chalky leaves
rustle with veiled future



A story is yet to be told.

There lives in the everyday
On a Wednesday late morning sidewalk
Of grimy city and in the small town
In the overcast of pregnant skies

Just plain folks
Blind enough of their own ego
To wear an immunity of self like a concrete saint

You see them in timeless pause
And watch in awe and ache
As blue and grey birds
With eyes as cloudy as your skies
Rest peacefully on their fingertips
Nurturing fat bellies with morsels of a sacred stillness