Value As Seen From the Shore

They speak of the value of the gem, 
Cut or jagged. 

What of the slime of the sea? What of the muscle around the pearl? 

What of the moss and the vines beneath the water? 

I longed for ages for the sharp edge of the precious stone. 

What of the grass? The serpent in the sand? 

What of discarded things on beaches? What of the skin and the flesh hot in the sun? 

I resent the part of me that loves a glimmer within a rock. 

What of 

Something better, something softer?

Songs of Seasons

We wrote a glyph on our heads in oil, 
A prayer of pain and peace, 
It whistles a melody, 
A dismal song of winter 

We drew a rune on our heads in oil, 
A prayer to the cosmos, 
It sang a song in pain,
A calming song for autumn. 

We drew a line on our heads in oil, 
A silent hope for reprieve, 
It burned a tune I recognized, 
A forgotten song of spring. 

We washed the oil from our faces, 
We sang along to the pain and panic, 
We rest our weary eyes in harmony, 
A sleepy song in summer.

The Clover Clearing

Inside the clover clearing, where mossy branches stretch to catch raindrops above you, you can lay forever and barely bend a blade of grass. It’s just for you, and for whom you choose. 

And on the sullen moor, where peat and loam compete for gloam, and reeds reach out from the sides of stones, you could wander forever in the crisp fog, and hear the birds just out of sight. 

Beneath a billowing gossamer sheet between the trees, spread over grass and moss and dirt, you can lie in utter safety, peaceful, guarded by its weavers. 

And the song of the evening breaks the silence, and you peer out to see the dew form on your surroundings, the air weeps for your contentment, and the trees rustle to your praise. 

A shimmering mirror lake, it’s surface gently tossed by the many things that call it home, reflects the sun and the moon and the stars and the clouds, and your beautiful face. 

And a glistening stream makes its way lazily out of sight between the hills and to a distant pond, for someone else, far away. It babbles pleasantly, happy for your company.

Moisture Bridge

White and pink and ruffled, 
Like little groups of wild flowers,
Tumbling from your gums, 
Coming from beneath your tongue, 

From underneath the moisture bridge. 

Floating in a murky pool, 
Where the ancient drain is stopped, 
With lily pads, and lily roots,
And wildflowers in little groups,

Forming a moisture bridge. 

From out of time return, 
The feeling that I didn’t know I’d lost
A hunger never satisfied,
What could you have thought

When you screamed atop that rainbow ridge? 

Little print on cloth, 
Weaving threads of pink and white, 
Spots of yellow intrude, 
Wildflowers in the moon. 

From the sides of the moisture bridge. 

Like red strips of cloth, 
Laid in the ferrous dirt, 
Like billowing cotton bunches, 
A million reaching hands,

From above the moisture bridge.