My skin drum beats the message
Deep from within my chest sending
Out the rhythmed vibrations
Hopefully, the sound will pound
Upon your own heart

Sweets of the flower
Opening, full-throated
Beckoning the welcomed bee.

Gifts are exchanged.

“Come or go,” she says,
“You remain free.
As long as you return to me.”

Therefore, he does.

Busy hours buzz,
The gatherings of love
Under the warmth of the sun.

Heat fades into cooler climes.

As always, winter comes.
There is 'a comfort' in that.
All must fly -

Bees, birds, time. . .

We live; we die.
Like a flowered vine clinging
We have offered ourselves up.

It is for the greater good, after all.

My wounds were generally not self-inflicted.
Most represent lessons learned, many from people that I love, still.
Now that I am older, at times, I will locate the scars,
Seeking them out, reaching into uncomfortable regions
To feel the now smooth flesh-covering,
Wrinkles in the brain.

You are the bright new future
Sparkling like a dime lying in the dust of an imploded building
Waiting to be picked up, pocketed, and saved for goods much
           needed.
Spend wisely young one.

I wanted to see it plainly
So I typed it out in Consolas
Only then could I understand
You really were gone

If there is a word
Glory in miniature
A contagion's caught

When we are a child we live in that barefoot moment of fascination.
We run through open-aired spheres of delight unabashed.
We bare our skin to the honey-tones of the sun to be browned
And we allow the moon to powder our skin and face with shimmer.

Then we grow up.

We clothe our bodies, don foot coverings, and shun the rays of the sun and moon.
We fear aging, alter our skin, dye our hair, and ‘Peter Pan’ on.
And when in the pseudo-insanity of an aged body and mind that has seized us, at last,
Let us throw off other people’s expectations.  

That is their problem.

Let us once again live in those barefoot moments, so few now, so precious.
Let us mentally run through open-aired spheres of delight unabashed.
Let us bare our skin to the honey-tones of a healing sun
And allow time to powder our hair with shimmer;

Finally to allow ourselves to eat the fruit of our labors.