You left a trail of breadcrumbs
That would lead back to you.

Hungry little bird that I am
I ate them one by one, and all,

Every single one,
And here I am.

Like substances broken out from your favorite perfume,
Somethings apart from the whole cannot be understood, nor enjoyed.
The beautiful scent comes from the delicate balance of each component.

Ingredients in your favorite dish do not taste as good as the whole.
Try eating flour on its own and see how far you get, and yet
A dessert made with it can be culinarily divine.

Sand is nice but what is it without the ocean or the ocean with sand?
You could plunk an alpine mountain down into a desert and then what?
The delicate ecosystem will not survive for long and then you have desert.

And what of literature, poetry?  What is its substance made of in the end?
Metaphors, meter, rhythm, rhyme, imagery, assonance, alliteration,
Words, phrases, stanzas, tone and form, ideas expressed to eke out the essence.

How do we construct a poem?
Poetry doesn't have to make sense,
But we want it to.

When the veil of mist hangs
Across the pastures and fields
The day is dawning gradually
Turning all things to color.

The sun swims in these pools
As a diver swimming slowly immerges
Out of the depths into sea-blue light
And begins to see clearly.

We feel the brief touch of cool mist
Before it can fully dissipate
Leaving us to immerge into our day
Warmed by the touch of the sun.

This new day breathed its first breath.

Stealthily moving through the forest,
Slinking in and out of trees, weeds, wildflowers, is the fox.
Red deer appear in an open meadow grazing.  Dusk is near,
The yawning day begins to close its bleary heavy eyes.  And
A distant raven caws a warning that he knows you are there.
Nature is not fooled by the games we play.

Our ancient genes carried us forwards, theirs, and ours.
Millenniums have passed by, and we each have stood
In one another’s presence.  The forest, the field,
**** and wildflower, the fox, the deer, the ravens.  
Not by pure magic, not by happenstance, but by design.
And we are so very blessed to be among one another.
  
A rich tapestry weaves like a comforting blanket around us.

There is something that fascinates
Me about your language.

Hairs bristle on the back of my neck,
My ears tingle when the words

Touch them and I burn for wanting
More of those lines.  Leaving me

Wanting so much more than words.

As drops of blood color water
That certain shade.  Pink?  Rose?
Lovely in themselves.  Coral?  

While the starfish slowly crawl
Across the mighty ocean floors,
The stars in heaven swirl overhead.

And we all continue to die each day.

For beth fwoah dream Boleyn

The pale moon, shrunken
And as faint as a pencil sketch

Shines down with sly smile
Looking over the forest below.

She is ill in her waning phase, but
Is comforted knowing she will wax.

Wild nettles of the night rise up
Wrapping her burden in mist.

The tides listen as she commands
Their rhythms and they distils their vapor.

Her victories are unfurled of wrappings
As they stretch out like ribbons of roads.

We are all puppets and go as directed.