If a man offers you water
without demand of recompense
and you are thirsty
do you look at the color of his skin?
do you ask what his politics are?
how he leans on an issue?
Or do you drink
full and deep?

Is it best
for your thoughts to become words
but pass from heart to mouth
instead of head to mouth
where the path runs
through brambled dark places
strung with webs
sticky from the pitch
of trepidation and uncertainty

Those yelling "FREEDOM"
So they can stay with the crowd
Are not truly free.

The Man was a man of a color they were afraid of
so they hated him already.
When he offered his hand so that they could walk together
down a new path, they chose another hand.
A hand from behind
from a dark path covered in the sharp thorns
of intolerance
of hate and fear
of lies and misleadings.
So they rejected the hand of The Man
and turning their backs on him
strode proudly into the dark
where their clothes and skin were torn
and cut.

Still The Man offered his hand
and a way out of the darkness
of the lies and intolerance
of the hate and misleading
of the fear...
But the hands from the dark kept a firm grip
and the voices of the blackness
called out to them and played upon their fears
of the new
of the different
of those who were not the same as them
and they kept walking backwards
into the dark.
....
....
....
finally...
when they had reached the deepest darkest bottom
and their clothing had been rendered from their bodies
and their skin was shredded and bleeding
and they had nothing left
they realized...

and they turned to look for The Man
but they couldn't see him
for they were in too deep
and had turned from him
when they had had the chance...
the chance to walk together with the rest of us
into the brightest of forwards.

There is perfection in the perfectly sauteed shrimp,
pink and plump and juicy.
Marinade clinging to the gentle curve of its back...
specks of lime zest and tarragon...
slide slowly down the sides,
a hint of tequila,
of honey
curls their way from pan...
to proboscis
and I smile.
Then...
gently with tongs...
turn them over....
...
...

Wrist knows first as warm sauce slides past, then mouth confirms, great barbecue.

Morning yawns and stretches across aged mountains.
It rolls over, pulling its blanket of mist over their shoulders
and wearily, yet steadily, opens it eyes.
It sighs with a breath that trembles the leaves on oaks and birches
and whispers its way through the countless needles of pines.
It wakens the birds who give song to its breath and announce the new day
to weary hikers, canoeists, climbers and shoppers
still nestled in their beds
still weary from yesterday's
adventures.