Love of the moss
grows shyly for the rock
With the rock nothing to flaunt
Whispers and sheds misty tears

Woods shun the rock
But the moss dares it
Giving the green cushion
and the glisten it longs

Such is the extravagance of the moss
The green blanket of the Eskimo
For the moss will give the rock buds
for it to taste the mist of dawn

Shrubs and thickets will envy
but embrace their despise
Winds swipe the shrubs
The moss nestled against the rock
Hugs, sticks and vows
Till man do us apart.

September 2023

It came from cloudless blue
No herald of its fall
Was served as heaven’s brew
To quench the thirst of all
To give to morn its dew
And cause to tiller’s prance
To wet dry ground anew
With peace, joy, song, and dance

A peace of spotless white
Urged warring halves to join
As weary eyes did sight
The gleam of nature’s coin

A joy of love’s consent
Burned bright from empty core
As ailing nose did scent
The rise of petrichor

A song to woe's distaste
From voice of grateful praise
As thirsting tongue did taste
The ale of favour's daze

A dance of festive tier
On soles of arid sores
As shutting ears did hear
The tune of Angels' scores

A comfort so surreal
Set last of five to race
As numbing nerves did feel
The warmth of wet embrace

It came from cloudless blue
As touch of God’s good hand
To bid fierce drought adieu
With child for barren land
Who looks not to years past
But thanks the Lord laid bare
Having found at long last
The one for whom to care

There was once a drought that thundered through the land
It stormed from north to south sparing neither head nor hand
It came on the heels of may, to rob fields of their right
Giving hunger to day then taking respite from night

Sun came and moon thereafter, time and time again
Yet the skies yielded no answer to the outcry of men
‘Cause fortune did reject the farmer’s desperate plea
For sin of thankless neglect towards soil of sower’s glee

Clouds massed in mocking grey, winds whispered hopeful lies
Telling of a better day when we would hear the heavens’ cries
Such was the willful drought that ended harvest’s reign
Starving land of fruitful sprout till Mercy brought the rain

I should say no more of the gloom through days of old
But with words long withheld, tell of that which should be told.

I had laid to sleep
that voice inside me who loves,
for she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds...

but you--
with your quiet words--
have woken her again.

for,
as much as she bleeds,
she would pour yet more--
a libation into the barrenness--

if you would but fill the silence.