circa

I met you
Through some avenue
In a trip around the sun
That always seems to shine on time

On a whim
Supernaturally
Light of my nine lives
For what purpose is certain

Clover Inside

The let-go girl, I tell you
See her, be her
Lest they make certain you’ll wish you were her
Your time for helping about
For tending clover, for being home
Gone, then
Wilted, without having seen the sun
Cancelled, before commencement
So plant your smile inside you now
Let go, girl

“The Currency of Grace”

Surprised to see the a.m. sun
Afire
Shining through
The door I’d forgotten I’d opened
Left open
To remind myself I’m alive
Praise

A part of this world
Apart from this world
And out of this world, too

Anyway, first, foremost
Tending to all the green
I thought to stop, I felt ashamed
Guilt
For all I’m giv’n, undeserved
But, my friend told me the currency
Grace

She Of The Field

Her stripes will never be white-washed
Her rudbeckia sun
Will never be tilled under
Love!
What cheapness have you done?

Your patch of earth, a briar field
Tall thistle lines your way
When beauty comes to ask you
Dear!
What answer will you say?

Justice

The Sun
Has no explaining
Nor does the long grass
The angle
The path
They’ve permitted

Justice
I won’t require
Or hold feet to the fire
Of the Squirrel
Stealing, running
From my garden

Not Illegal

We ache, don’t we

Our trudging, persevering waves

Our praying to not fade away into the vintage

We make you hurt, all we want

The warmth of some sun wrapped so permanently around us

That the days of being exposed and cold….

And alone

In the heat

Be behind us

Can you do that?

A Wild Meander

I don’t want to hear the morn’ coming in; stay at bay.

At my pace, I’ll share my fruit with the wild; bid good day.

When the sun seems warm enough, out I’ll go; come what may.

Truth is, creatures know I can’t resist them; so I stray.

Hypodermic

I wonder how I’d look with the Sun on my face. Not the fast and deep flowing sunlight, who I long ago named Hope. But the actual Sun. Surely the truth and green of my eyes would shine. Surely I’d see my chin lifted ever so slightly higher. Surely I’d feel beautiful. Then, “Hope,” I could say, “move along.”