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

Just as the moon shines
Alone the bright emanates
Within your deep tomb

The infinite sound of poetry
So infant-ly a part of my brain;

I lie down to read one of the multitudes of books
Collected over the years.

They will not tell me how to write or what to write.
But perhaps they will help me recover

That part of the old grey cells which always thought TV
To be the scourge of it.

There are three known states in which substance is to exist:

A solid, which has a definite shape and volume.
Liquids, although having a definite volume, can only take the shape
       of that which contains them.
Gases; death and beauty in our conundrum; have no definitive shape,
      nor volume.

Ice
Water
Air

The ethereal nature that does exist,
An un-defining ethos,
This trinity of you.

My granny loved Banny hens.
They are small but they can be feisty.
Just as was she.

Have the crocus bloomed, yet,
In their rainbow colors?
I wait for them above all others.
Not because they are the loveliest.
Not because they are delicate & fair.
But, because they bravely poke their heads
Into the rarified air.
And then I know hope.
Spring is on its way!

The sun broke through, shining on a nation;
Black clouds thinning into edges of grey mist.

Such a convection of hate starting to dissipate
Replacing the heat of vitriol; and in the coolness

Love becomes a lump of coal glowing in the frigid climate
Blown into a warm flame of unity’s hopeful heart.