in Sp
ring
when song
birds

singjoy
fully,
dying
is

dull
;but
fat worms
****

**** thunder
are the
raindrops
f

alling&stain
ing the
side
walk,rin

sing off
the
col
orful chalk

Throughout sixteen seasons
I merely looked out of
the five bay windows of my
brick walled birdcage at
shadows of Elm trees
dancing along either
side of the street.

I was only
a lonely observer.

But late one night deep
in the heart of the fifth
summer I sensed an
odd strength surging
through
my weakened wings.

I quietly opened the
door of my cage, glided
down the driveway and
onto the street below,
enticed by warm blustery
and liberating midnight
winds under the strange
glow of moonlight through

translucent
sunbaked
and
cracked
clay
clouds.

I no longer just longingly
admired the view of the
dancing shadows on the
street through a window;
I actually felt the shadows
of those living branches
and leaves dance with
my shadow and felt them
caress my

hair
face
arms
legs
mind
and
spirit

as I did a
low test flight with
them for
only about twenty feet
over and along the
back street below.

I longed to continue
my solo night flight
like a bird through
the midnight air in
currents of streets
and hundreds of miles
of highway where my
baby and I like two
newly
freed birds could fly
across the

Sea
of
Change
and
of
Destiny

where we could at last
be truly free in our
hearts in our minds
and also physically.

But like a well-trained
domesticated bird
I reluctantly returned
to the large cage of my
mind where I continue
to dream of being free --

my
gentle
companion
and
me.

Bloom is in season.
The birds sing for a reason.

The river's motion
Seems to have a notion
For every rock around the bend.

Mushrooms are smiling a tinge.

Not a thing is strange.
Infinity has no range.

Take a token.
The thing left unspoken:
What He thinks of Hymn.

The fields of time melt beneath my feet
And the rain is slightly sweet.

Dew of the divine drops
And gains back again.

Time is a loop of sorts,
Everything ends where it begins again.

Eternity is a moment
And it never ended again.

You know every drop ascends in

The End

Again.

Someone used to say
That spring begins and ends
Like a transient midday breeze

When the colour of the tulip fades
To an old pale yellow
You, grown out of your sorrow
Will stand ahead of the horizon
Ready to live, ready to breathe

Don’t disappear.
Not today.
The humidity is too low,
The vibration of baby insects hums along the ground
Surely you hear them.
Tomorrow it will still be springtime
And the day after that.

You can’t disappear, you’ll miss the fireflies and the August lilies
You’ll miss the homemade garden salsas and the baskets of eggplants and basil and sweet peppers
You’ll miss the crunchiest leaves under your shoes
The feeling of warmth after cold
The November moon.

Don’t disappear,
The wide world needs witnessing
And you’re the only one with your eyes to witness it.

It's been snowing last
Night, golden leaves of Autumn
Cover the once-green grass,
Hiding the Summer days.
Button-up, little lady,
It is time to go into hiding.

Do we all need a season,
Of hiding? Cocooning? Intimacy
With our Creator? To be remade without hesitation
A squall of geese squawks
Overhead, moving on...

With Mother Nature.

I wonder—
do the trees feel empty in winter,
like abandoned cathedrals with hollowed arches,
their prayers carried off by wind?
Do they mourn the once-gold choir of leaves,
or do they wait—
hands lifted in quiet faith,
hope braided into their roots
like a forgotten hymn?

Does the moon know she is not always whole?
That we love her in pieces—
when she is a shard of silver,
a lost earring in the sky.
Does she ache, too,
a lantern adrift in a sea of indifference,
admired but never held?

There is beauty, I think,
in what is missing—
in the pause before bloom,
in the ache of becoming.
The tree, the moon—
they teach us how to stay
even when we are not full.

Maybe they know.
Maybe they don’t.
But still—they remain.
And maybe that is enough.

There was a
snowball fight.
A ****** nose.
A forgotten glove.
The evidence now
under a blanket
of white. Only
partial footprints
remain. Soon they
too will be gone.

Spring comes
And I find myself fond of fall.
Summer dawns
And I admire more winter.
Fall arrives
And I cherish spring newly.
Winter blossoms
And I appreciate summer more clearly.