Your web tingles.
Movement you discern.
A shimmer of dew falls.
Perfectly still listening
You wait momentarily,
Rush forward to him
With your love bite.

It is that which drives me
It is not hardheadedness
Although it has been called such
It is, rather, a stick-to-it-ness
That guides me to never give up
A dogged determined outlook
Which tells me not to stop
Because ultimately all will be okay

In the stiff northern breeze
Leaves are blowing from the trees
And gathering at our feet.

-A lovely time of the year.

Hot chocolate in hand we climb
A pile nearby to sit and enjoy our treat.
I recite my wintery rhymes.

-A cozy scene with you.

You say they are "so sweet."
A dagger to the heart of a poet.
Oh, happy dagger your pain?  I know it.

-Reality's brutal strike!

But sitting there with you,
Even for the moment, life feels complete.
Even if you are not truly bright.

-It takes a poet to understand a poet.

Accepting the moment in which we find ourselves
Allow reason and meaning to regather as we turn away
From the unacceptable things we find we are sinking in
Reconnecting to the truthful, to the beautiful.
Aspects of goodness you saw once in others.  
Aspects you know are deeply embedded within you.

Reconnect to the good in others we know is there
To find some heart recover yours in the shining glow
Of love, of goodness, of that which you've known
Tarnish must be polished away from other heart
Cleanse own's own heart if we are to be of any use
Have the courage to live another day.  

Enjoy what you can as you can.
The healing will come from those regions
Which the core foundation remains and can never erode.
How did you learn to love?  Who initially gave you hope?
You did when you decided to love, to be loved, to reach higher.
Trust that a higher power unseen will guide and will lead.

Follow the breadcrumbs that you know were laid for you.

Pain sits with a held hand.
It is enough.

Pain rises, carries on,
It was enough.

Because it doesn't want
To perpetuate the pain

Of others.
There is always enough.

When the glass is filled
One stops.

My grief lies below the 6-foot mark.
Yet, my hope rises above that depth
Where there are many hands to hold.
I recall that hope is an anchor for the soul.
And then I come to understand and know
That I can endure almost anything.

Though things at present may look bleak.
Everything points to a brighter future.
What fuels our world's beauty, forests, fields, and gardens?
Is it, not decay, the litter layer, a waste uncultivated?
Superfluous matter feeds life and produces beauty.
"One man's trash," as they say, or animals for that fact -
Our systems are breaking down, building up, breaking down
Again.  In this churning regenerating it is giving hope.
The hope of a bright new world, before us, springs up.