flowers, these children,
need only your tending and
your most genuine love.
flowers, these children,
need only your tending and
your most genuine love.
Crisp sunrise, August
wraps us in the notion of
soft morning sweaters.
Peach cobbler
on a trampoline,
and laughter
rolls like ripe fruit
through the open window.
Sepia of the summertime,
we are free as a universe,
expanding into the last
Saturdays of summer.
On the long road home,
it is always the darkest
just before the light.
He speaks
the language
of bees,
helps the
species in
the trees,
so wise,
and to
the child
with fear
in her
eyes, replies,
you too
my dear
are a
bee whisperer.
Let us exist
to nurture
one another.
What plant
can grow
in the dark?
One harsh word
can be an act
of violence.
It is our
responsibility
to turn toward
the shadow places,
and light them
like the sun.
At “Namaste,”
the first thunder rolls.
Just like magic.
The sky as witness,
nods atmospheric
yeses to the bodies
that return like rain
to this passing stream.
We are all going home.
Take my love like this
rain, leave the windows open,
let me fill your heart.