Resulting fromThe bitter taste Of wounds freshlyImpressed on young fleshPressed into service For they, the mastermindsOf extremely late term abortions
You bike atop the snowCapped peaksSwiss air bending With the light Flying homeTo see what becomesOf yourself No NobelPurpose rests upon your shouldersDiscovering father Of happiness
I could always find the damn creek but never any beavers
I lost you first,fourteen year friend,my golden girl.
Perhaps best to admire, from a distance,the petals on your face. The ayre, it seems, conspiresto steal my breathaway.
I’m fleeting, dropfrom Mother, caught by the breezeand carried far, far away.Dogwood Blossoms
Wreathed in mist Her mountain tops So blue against the setting Sun, arboreal leaves hidden By the dappled shade That shifts across The valley slopes Shimmering under Its wilting gaze In the final hours Of the day
Mother made me To cry bitter tears Over her mountains Her valleys Her serenity
If snow could taste the rainThere will be hunger in the voidIf the stars fade awayThen light will be gone from our heartswhen I carry my first childkiss me kiss me said the crow
I’d risk it all Alea iacere