Bailer

Never, during his entire mad, unmanaged spree
Could he see, though he claimed to look
Could he understand, though he claimed to know
Could he love, though he claimed a heart
I, then, left cut, scattered, chasing, winded

Summit

Like a trudge up a hill in the mud
In my Sunday best and all
Clearly, I’m doing it wrong

All wrong

Eyes shut, I’m to don a red cap
In the end, all will be great again
Clearly, as mud it is

The Art of Making

The Scene: You are an actor and I, an epic script
With minds to set the screen afire
With hope upon our lips

The Method: Be emboldened and feel the risk with me
We’ll project timeless, endless strength
We’ll cast doubt to the sea

Last Ditch

Have you felt invisible
Made from supernatural
Then unmade by someone’s lack?
So have some of us

We become as sunflowers, though
We watch for a flicker
We turn in accordance
We thrive in The Light

blaze

I am to go deep with you
Some say I have
Some ask what for
I know there’s no secret You
No obscure path
No hide and seek
I, Earthbound, in need of you
You, Smith…I, rod
You, Shield…I, scout

Impart

Give me, gift me your assignment now that you are gone, for I was to each day greet your wrinkles, your papers: My touch, the unsugar-coated ink atop your laugh lines, your copy lines…my voice, an unedited reporting of your happiness, your joy.

High Point

I swear the squirrel
Said make no sound
And followed her own advice

Having the choice
Of shade or sun
Opted for lowly and nice

Still she travelled
Efficiently
And got where she hoped to be

I own peanuts
I’ll share with her
Since she shares wisdom with me

Withering Smile

Once the hydrangeas have decided, there is no turning back. They bloom just for you. Intentionally. Enough sweltering days strung one-after-another makes them crazy enough to believe.

And delusional. They let you walk ever-so-near. They don’t see you’ve a gardener’s shears behind your back. And your intention…to display them on your basement table.

Wing

It is enough for me, the breeze today. To let it waft over me, and with it, bring a strength.

Beauty and curiosity, like a bleached-comb Cardinal, often ride on such air. This morning, though, wisdom arrived.

This morning, the wind asked for my resolve: A halt to crying over others’ big promises and small feet. The stop to the bruises I allow.

A decision that I am enough. The God who created me said so.

This weekend, a storm of understanding is predicted. An Eastern Bluebird cannot be far behind.