I am the boulder that never said no
feet in the seafoam
hands full of sky.

A poet unmoored always returning—
to shadowbox with waves
and trace figure eights
in the palms of ghosts—
to write themselves into the wind
and carry your pain away.

A lunchbox of wisdom
a tree of light
a hug just for you waiting—

Round around.

Wayward curls shine in silver
New strands each day I see 
Nothing will ever stop these waves
From greying furiously  

Why then be lost in troubled thoughts 
And hurry those tides of white 
Breathe in and breathe out instead
Let little things delight 
 
Sing of the joys of nascent spring
Dance to a happy summer song 
Paint trees in burnished gold 
Spin tales of leprechauns

Embrace brazen winds that breeze
The earth that holds well-walked feet 
The canopy of light and dusky night 
Where the sun and the moon come to meet 

No tarot reading
No fortune teller 
No crystal ball I see 
Why riddle the eyes with endless thoughts....
What shall be, shall be

I am afraid ,
not of dying,
but to be born again .

I am afraid ,
not of my enemies ,
but to fall in love again.

I am afraid,
not of death,
but to live one more life
with a broken heart.