Poetry to me is both the tree and the seed.
Weight gets taken off my chest and helps me to breathe
Allowing unhealed wounds to get the stitches they need
In dark times the pen connects fueling the necessary release.
I get to write out the vision of my dreams
And speak my peace confidently,
Because poetry saved me

I've been able to address and let go of what pains me, thankfully.
These words strewn together form a much bigger painting. 
I know it reaches beyond me so potentially someone else could read and also find life worth saving.
Cyclically, once again we will all fall like a leaf from a tree.  
Ever-important, you are an integral part of life, a whisper in the wind floating on in the breeze.
Plant those seeds and Watch the growth of Being.
Remember You are profound, deep, and
beautiful - like poetry

Oh, wild things
laughing and blushing
devouring that warm
delicious champagne breeze

That fever and desire
it is sacred
slow
poetry

Kiss me he said
And she did

My thoughts
whirl about
like a sudden
gust.

You are
to me,
as the restless wind
is to the
petals of a flower;

fleeting,
out of reach,
ungraspable.

the flowers that grow on the trees
look like
muted explosions
but not malicious enough to hurt the eye

the flowers are so tender and soft
and all i can see is nature's true beauty
as the gentle breeze animates the trees

we're standing in my driveway
and it's a vivid spring day

pastel tones tones
swaying lightly in the wind
their sweet fragrance is
only noticeable if you are close

close enough to disregard
the fact that you have allergies and asthma and should
not inhale pollen...

close enough that when you reach out and
touch the branch the impossibly small petals
break free and fall slowly to the ground. . .

close enough that i watch as the petals brush your face
and you are,
for the minute,

at peace.

The grey skies spread above me,
has something to tell
cool breeze that soothed behind me,
has something to follow
funny smell flies through my nose,
has something to invite
noise of frog wandering through my ears,
has something to warn
the single droplet falls from high,
had rolled down through my cheek...

She could be air, she could be breeze
as we speak,
yet placed in his mind with such ease,
as if a blind man's
last notion of the world
before his eyes decease.

Some little drops of water
Whose home was at sea
To go upon a journey
They once happened to agree
A white cloud was their carriage
Their horse, a playful breeze
And over town and country
They rode along at ease
But the cloud held too many
And began to grow heavy
The little drops of water started to fall
And the cloud looked on with appal
The water fell to their dismay
Was this how they end their day?
~19/3/21