The sails ask not the ship's mast for a sense of place;
the sails tell not the thermals which direction shall find land;
the sails know not the winds that drive their presence;
the winds never wonder why the ship, the mast or sails
need to reason for emotion.
The winds are an existential relative for all things
that must have movement.
We wildflowers - are connected to earth
and to nature in ways that can only be understood
by a lone blossom stating its indomitable presence
while sprouting its beauty from the crack of a cold
and unforgiving boulder
in a series of timeless reoccurances -
Wildflowers shall note our last place
was our beginnings.
Her eyes delivered change;
An imprimatur
of life itself
New and forever-
Shameless
in passion-
Hopeless
In love.
Two of the hoariest souls
(an ancient mariner and an old dog)
found themselves estranged
from their youthfulness
and so, they shared their only possession
- the cold
pavement in each other's hold.
Both too venerable to lie
yet, vulnerable to die.
While being April -
can a miscast fit
in May blooms
and yet, remain artful
throughout the frugal
days ahead as gossamer
blades that need the wind -
Why not in the third person -sitting
there alone with nothing to say - thinking
memories are narratives - remembering
and verse vague in the first and second of reason...
However, reminiscing happens in the first person.
The long day's last light
offers the soul a place
where to sleep the night
until awakes the dawn's new face.
Green is hope;
purple is passion
and the yellow is existence
of a rebirth of Spring.
