An emergence,

the glimmer of ignorance

Hope unmarred,

a dance with clear,

but careless steps

Yet, somehow–

nurtured disappointment is

sewn to elusive nature,

balanced webs spinning

fables within the strangest

of dreamscapes...

Hard earned lessons found

sinking, sinking,

sinking as the world

demands too much

Even through the bliss

of honeysuckle lips and

jasmine nights, delicate

curvature pulled taut

by the absence of time,

there lives a yearning

for completion, to be fastened

to the wholeness of strength

and its complexities

and though the open petals

glisten sweetly in

the softlight of the moon,

though the grip is firm, desperate,

it knows where peace will lie--

the fates do as they please

Bound to the spinning of the

wheel, daggers nick limbs,

expose bone, and forces the angel

to fall, weeping, mourning,

as grace dissolves into the sea

The North Star mocks with the way

she defies the moon and darts

hopelessly from the sun

But time, slipping through

crooked, calloused fingers

its granules catching beneath

splitting, deficient nails, cares little

for the trivialities of

honeysuckle dreams and the way

hopeful hands tremble

within the clock face

Nature, the ageless coquette

succubus, seductress,

ferocious in her passion

opens herself, promising peace

within the warmth

of her earthen bed

Rest, she whispers,

Time won't find us here.

The tea I drink is made of

linden, valerian, manita

tilia, passionflower,

lemon balm and mint

The petals, leaves, stems,

and sometimes roots

are steeped into a

weary woman's potion

Linden quiets the noise,

slows the racing of

a fair-weather heart

Valerian grounds me,

helps me find a pen

and focuses inspiration

Manita siphons woe,

pulls the weight

from body and soul

Tilia welcomes,

optimism swirling

in its cheery fragrance

Passionflower graces me,

offering sweet, simple

fleeting indulgence

Lemon balm remembers,

reminds me of a lesson

My notebook opens

Mint clears the fog,

pieces a vision, and my

pen meets printed line

Like seven blossom tea,

I too, am made from

leaves, petals, stems,

and sometimes roots

Weary, woeful woman

made of bud and bloom

seeking peace, writing spells

--and sometimes poems

Seeds take root-- leaves begin to sprout and flatten eagerly in the sun, taking in the warmth of its story

Leaves rest in perfect silence

being, listening

A miniscule bud peeks through the wisdom of the leaves, and with slow, patient, seductive time, opens thirsting petals

The sun strikes on knowledge innate

listening, questioning

Greenery rises and falls, sprouts and withers, swayed by the creeping seasons, by what the sun allows

Rain drenches petals but nourishes roots

questioning, yearning

Betrothed to the cycle, the garden joins itself with what has been, what is and what will be, refuses the stink-rot of stagnancy

The sun, She seeks change, too

yearning, knowing

The poet is of the Earth and Sky, interwoven, formed within the space that lies between the line; employed to enchant, enlighten, entomb

The poet: rooted vessel for perspective

knowing, being

I stepped off concrete

thinking the grass

would be softer

beneath my feet

but I found

the lush terrain

made it more

difficult to walk

From the stars, I rise

stumbling through the sunlight

Borne from Diyu's haze

Summoning cherubs

winking at simplicities

Consequence, she waits

Roots seek quiet earth,

sacred bonds of creation

Like the bud, I bloom

As dust seeks trinkets

I convene with time's good grace--

The pale horse beckons

I sift through the ash

dancing into stretched shadows

With the stars, I meld

In the way that you mourn for the past-- dying embers floating lonesome, seeds

burning into the shrouded night, like you, like me. it carries not comfort of warmth-of worth- but burning, singed skin flushed with spiking chemicals and fraying lace, so seductive in its familiarity, raging temptress of poor resolve

You, me, arrested

dance atop the angered coals

Moonlight, she deceives

Paled, flaking

I crave the earth's warmth

Color, blooms

---

Petals stretched

A sun, forgiving

Rain, cleanses

It starts with a song

a fictional woman's croons

to her perception,

to expectation of man,

foreshadowed dissent-

-A determined face frozen

inches from the screen

immersed in coy messages

bigger than her growing mind

The weather is warm,

but not all the time.

Daffodils dare to rear

their flowering heads.

A stout robin sits

on a powerline,

chirping into the dampness

of winter.

Cotyledon, I push forth

through the damp earth, reaching

for the humidity and heat

beckoning me from my shell

Gemini, made of stem and leaf,

champion of wishful thinking-

--what comes next?

I knew that I would be a tree

mighty oak, reaching for the stars

with reckless abandon

But back then, the heavens were

too far, and the tiny hands

of tiny creatures came and tore

me at the root, smashed my leaves

between jagged, yellow teeth

I thought surely, I will never stretch

toward the sky again

But those tiny hands and jagged teeth

did not touch the parts that sat firmly

in the earth, more deeply than greedy hands

would think to look

From my roots, I sprout again

Cotyledon, I push through

the familiar earth, unafraid, prepared

Never meant for a shell