I’m not fragile
I’ve just been broken
So many times before
That the glue is unable to hold.
I’m not fragile, am i?

I have a big book on the history of art,
which I read long ago,
but now I've found in it
dried leaves and flowers I had preserved
a herbarium.
I no longer remember when I saved them.
It was a surprise to me.
The flowers have lost their color
but they are so beautiful.
Perhaps I will frame them
to give them eternity.

Every person I've met has their own demands and whims directed at me.
I always regard them with forgiveness.
But they can't understand this
they fuss, thinking I see them as empty space.
I simply possess great willpower.

I find it hidden in my garden
a secretive flower
I slowly unfurling it’s dusky petals
caressing it’s long stem

I am drawn to it’s inner bud
and caress it with my tongue until
sweet nectar flows

I am the Queen Bee
that creates honey from nectar
Grows orchids from black earth
and passion from poetry

Perhaps a damp sponge
Will wipe night terrors-

Expunge trace of Moon
To slip beneath Sun

Erasing memory, making
Flat a sorry curvature

Of this rough-edged,
Rotating ball.

Trading a violence of
Sapiens

For the calm of
Shimmering Dawn

In the depths
Of dust and debris,
Where even dandelions
Hide and bury,
Pulsating,
Is a tiny resistance,
And alive,
Is a tiny heartbeat.