My rhythm is off, but the beat is calling,
That tribal drumming, the earthen pulse.
A return to the roots of natural forces,
A long lost knowledge from ancient skulls.

The fire is dim, but is stoked and burning,
All shadows retreat, as I turn to ash.
The smoke will be cleansing as is the flame,
It builds brighter still, as it burns the past.

My blood will flow with the tides of the sea,
Each crashing wave washing myself anew.
My cup runneth over and fills me back in,
A rush of emotions to get me in tune.

My breath of the wind, steady and calm,
Connects with nature and settles this storm.
As light as a feather, as serene as the sky,
My soul like a cloud, shifts and transforms.

With roots dug in deep, my crown opens up,
Embracing the guidance of heaven and earth.
With gratitude I surrender over again,
To the endless process that is my rebirth.

He rolls up smiling in his finely detailed luxury convertible with the executive package. He checks his watch frequently as he has many things to do, but he also likes to look at it. He likes to look at other people looking at it too. Nothing but the finest for him. From his italian leather belt to his perfectly creased tailor fit khaki slacks. He has his dress shirt tucked in and power jacket on to show that he's all business, but no tie.. Never a tie, because the lack of one keeps him hip and real and young. He's living the life, he thinks to himself, a forty-four year old bachelor, all the money in the world, and a full head of hair.
He didn't hold the door for the lady walking behind him as he entered the store and she was left scrambling to catch the handle. He suddenly seemed awfully alone in the world he created. So much so that he doesn't even notice the rest of us. Then he exchanged some demeaning words with the cashier for taking too long when counting change and I realized he wasn't happy either.  He glanced at me as he left and as our eyes met I wondered what my face said to him... If anything at all.

I wonder if a moth has ever tried to fly to the moon,
I wonder if she dreamt of it while asleep in her cocoon,
Ambitiously flapping and seduced by the light,
Of that yellow moon shining, enticingly bright.
I wonder if she tempted all the perils of the sky,
I wonder if she conquered all the limits of her mind,
Certainly, she made it.. At least one can dream,
To believe that the impossible is closer than it seems.

Like a path out of the forest hidden beneath the snow, there seems to be some grand idea just below the surface. Dreamlike inspiration quickly fading like footprints in the drift. Our survival depends on our ability to scratch pen to paper and hand to head to make something tangible from thought before it vanishes.
That impassible white, equally mesmerizing and infuriating in its indifference. The page cares not for our words, yet we demand it be filled. We stumble through words and stutter our thoughts, grabbing loose metaphors from the air like snowflakes, only to watch them melt away from our pen.
Yet as many times as we retire in exasperation is as many times that we'll start again. For the drive to create and the need to relate outweighs our torturous view of the craft. Soon enough winter will break and words will sprout forth from the fertile ground of our minds. Bountiful metaphors and analogies will ripen for the picking and the path that has been there all along will be realized. Only then will we know for certain that spring has sprung again.

Flames lick and flicker fueling the fire of a combustible iridescent soul until it explodes in formed phrases and stories told like fireworks. Wielding an unfathomable yearning for learning the true weight of words and how hot they burn for better or worse. Rehearsed and rehashed paragraphs, finely tuned non fiction, fabricated falsehoods, and forgotten lore are riddled and widdled down into one well written epic epitaph ment to inspire us to tightrope walk on live wires or fan the fires of our own burning funeral pyers for a chance that we may be understood through written word.