You will join the image lamp,
gracefully circling its ivory contours,
soft as the gentle warmth of summer wax.
A core flame emanates,
casting a quiet refuge upon your face,
illuminating the space with a comforting glow.
Light bends through the tender forge of the candle,
leaving its delicate imprint—
a momentary shimmer that lingers upon your breath,
as if capturing a fertile gown in time,
and holding the world in suspense.

You take flight,
folding fresh winds into the stretched fabric of your wings,
releasing their splendid momentum,
awakening the vibrant energy within the lamp's embrace.
Can this mallow flutter extend into the encroaching dusk,
where children play amid a sea of petals,
transforming them into fantastical wings,
and drawing you gently into their innocent hands?

They etch us into flight,
inscribing fingerprints into the air,
swirling ochre drawn from sun-kissed fields,
laying fine lines of whispered violet ribbons
across the evening sky.
Each intricate stroke marks the essence of your rebirth.

Swaddled in a cocoon of leaves,
you rest among blooming ceanothus,
surrounded by buzzing worlds pristine.
The children shape their world with an artist's delicate touch,
and you unfurl joyfully within their exuberant innocence.
Wings spread your journey into bloom,
toward the glow of memory.

We played with vibrant petals, holding them to the light—
can you feel their fragile, velvety edges
against your fingertips?
Children of color and dust,
architects of wonder—
can you not see what we have created?
They rise like majestic pine trees,
clasping cinders while spilling into the gusty current,
much like a wick clings to soot in the rain,
and the ash seeps into the pewter blush.

These wings, ours to keep—
to claim that sacred space where petal transforms to wing,
where child becomes wanderer,
where we, with hands outstretched,
surrender ourselves to the vast and endless sky.

The children twirl, their spirits spinning in open air,
dissolving the boundary between dark and light,
weaving an enchanting promise into the wind—
a promise of glow and trills,
boarding a grand carousel of vibrant motion.
They are moths that sway shadows around the image lamp,
lost in a ride never meant to end.

You are now part of this angelic carousel,
spinning in a dance of contemplative thoughts,
pulling the delicate wings of life into the lamp's warm glow.
In that sacred space,
you forge a candle, enclosing it within a celestial spindle,
pressing against the emerging array,
waiting patiently for the sweet release into the hour's ease.

You unfold before us, adorned with colored wings
that flutter like a breath of silk upon the air,
your intricate patterns, delicate
as whispers of light.
You extend outward—
an embodiment of radiant motion,
a malleable embrace that plays coyly with the glow,
inviting us all into the carousel's spun moonlight amusement.

We rise, caught in the gentle currents of the summer breeze,
spilling onto the porch in a unified circle.
We envisioned a magical realm
where the day's oppressive heat could not reach us.
We laid our intricate designs upon the weathered rocks—
a seashell, cracked but radiant,
its spiral edge still holding the memory of a child's thoughts,
lay next to your meditations.

But dusk descends—
like folding wings in the shape of honest quietude,
as if the air kneels in reverence,
bestowing grace into the ether.
Shadows lengthen like old trees.
Petals lose their playfulness in the cooling breeze.
The children's laughter softens,
tucking back into the crease of memory,
and we see a place for shelter
to rest our day's dreams,
and flutter our spoil,
wrapped in cotton wool.

We congregate on the pane of the night.

Tap, tap.
We flutter white dust against the glass,
like snowflakes brushing a winter window.
Tap, tap.
Our wings gleam with striking blooms
that catch the moonlight.
Tap, tap.
The night air holds its breath in an empty room,
where shadows play beneath somber gray walls,
lined with the rough, worn treads of teary years.

Bent nail heads protrude from bashful markings.
The widow's peak pulses unseen
in spun black silk.
This pane moves like a barb gnawing at the house's side,
splitting open a slow wound in the shifting cold,
exposing the raw, festering venom of decay—
like red sand possessing time,
spilling relentlessly in the cruel hourglass of demise.

Once firm in strong hands,
this house is now torn from a rusty spike and draped in scars,
bleeding in slow dilation
as time concedes gracefully into its hollow mark.

Searching for a way to the room,
we fell into the corroded darkness,
and she came for us—
not as an unseen trace,
but as the inevitable barrier of this mortal coil,
waiting in the turn of twilight.

She wore a gown of midnight,
embroidered with the emblem of poisonous red,
filling the prison of time with her venom's decree—
dark geometry unfurling in long, chaotic membranes.
She strung us on sinister beads,
swaying in the soft light of her merciless industry,
threading our petal wings into her web,
tightening the loom that binds us to her creeping dusk.

In quiet thoughts,
we find ourselves at an inevitable end,
where rolling hills whisper tales
of intertwined loss and undiluted beauty.
We weave in and out of inspired celestial light,
emerging triumphantly with our thoughtful brightness,
resting in the warm glow of image lamps
that flicker gently like distant stars.

In quiet contemplation,
we rest where the ashes of embers lay unbroken.
The resilient Tuff stone burns deep beneath our feet,
and loyal dogs curl their dreams in peaceful slumber,
their breaths a gentle rhythm
against the backdrop of the night.

We find our conclusion in this serene setting—
strolling along the beach,
the sand cool beneath our toes.
We scour the shoreline,
picking up smooth, weathered rocks,
digging for clams with eager hands,
garments rolled to our knees
in the playful embrace of the ocean breeze.

In solitude,
we sleep and rise in a rhythm
like earnest, truthful commuters
on an old train line—
the slow rumble of passing cars
blending with the rush of waves
lapping against the shoreline.

Are you connected to this raw mark,
with torn skin at the heart,
wrapped in the silken cloth of time—
each thread a memory tugging at your soul?

We will transform love into letters,
writing our emotions with ink and sincerity,
and share sweet kisses with the expansive sky,
inviting the universe to join our dance.

We pause to watch the bridge's reflection
arching gracefully over the shimmering waters.
We lay on logs to rest our backs
and hear the rustling branches swaying in the wind.

With this metamorphosis,
we will spread our wings,
pure and bright like the image lamp
at the center of our core.

So let us unravel the layers of our existence,
and reach out, pushing into a world
enriched by our essence.
Your image lamp spins like a carousel,
tethered to an angelic spindle,
and you will hear the laughter of children
beating out rhythms with chalk drums,
pulsing fresh worlds filled with petals and vibrant wings.

Each moment is a design for the beauty of life unfolding.
This is the moment your dusk stretches like petal wings
around your image lamp—
nestling a cocoon,
fluttering free
in the moment
for life
to renew
ease.

A perfume of sweet yellow
gathers the wealth of morning light,
unfurling a sunlit elixir into the day.
A soft breeze carries it across the flaxen field,
casting honeyed notes through morning's fragrant spell.
It lingers where reticent voices lie,
nestled in the hollow hillside,
along the gentle bend of a rustic road
that winds through lands of unfertile ash—
crumbling like a shadowed form
pressed beneath the silent sun.

Outcroppings of neglected stones,
fossilized beneath the dry command of heat,
shaped by forlorn abrasion and whipping tones,
stand wordless—witnesses in cooling clay.
In the slow migration of light into bloom,
the Spanish broom—a fragrant sentinel—
cradles the threshold of distant winds,
like the golden sparrow's dawn-cry
stirring within tender leaves.
Light plumes rise. Solitary earth persists—
an immaterial vessel for the unseen,
the unfinished held in bright embrace.

The enduring soil guards this solitary shrub,
pulsing with a longing for renewal,
a steadfast grasp at fading fertility.
Along this path, the earth loosens its hold,
eroding into ocher clay and stained stones:
an open wound revealing buried fire,
a burnt umber memory exposed.
Laid bare on the unharvested hill,
the sparrow watches—
a raw iron day calls for communion,
as sediment speaks in rusted lines
pressed by the hand of a steel wind.

In iron stillness, sorrow reclines
within the dips of parched grasses,
and wakefulness carves its certitude
in the script of erosion as the sparrow flies.
She imprints her breath
in sienna-dimmed dusk—
laid like an offering in soft clay,
her form pressed into the palm of earth:
a memory of struggle and becoming,
bound to the vein where weathered eyes dwell.
Yet in the hush of early light,
the Spanish broom bends with quiet grace,
drawing breeze to quench its thirst for fire
and sharing warmth with barren soil.

The sparrow calls into the curling green sprout of self.
Her song—cracked and dry—
a rasp borne on wind and drought—
rises, seeking sustenance
in the fleeting climb of dawn.
With raw umber wings,
she crosses the rusted expanse,
where silence exhales its fragile ascent.
Her soft pain etches a living contour
into the open hill's exposed relief.
The Spanish broom—resilient yellow flames—
welcomes this grit of earth,
offering rest in its fresh-scented fold.

As I stand near,
its ashen core holds my figure,
mirroring the silence within me
as I search for your sparrow above.
A stillness, bright with the breath of wind,
threads through the canyon of my eye.
A promise gathers there,
where a calm creek winds around stones,
pooling at the feet of ancient roots—
a net to hold clarity reborn,
a lucidity that sings
morning's first light:
a golden bloom rising in the air,
a tone to carry your voice.

It offers a stem to me,
and I weave from its green cord
a thread to bind the breath of day—
to gather the voice of dispirited nature
and spin it like water in soft eddies
turning through my open palms.
I release its glow into the wind—
a bird borne on the current of your thoughts,
tying distant lands into a single knot,
a quiet promise sealed
in the communion of sky and soil.
I gather the blooms of this distance,
savoring their sweetness like wild honey—
a fragrant current suspended in your breath.
I braid this essence into air,
a tapestry spun from the patient flower's resolve.
And in the crown of the sparrow's revealing call,
the Spanish broom unwinds a path
through the tender spell of your blossoming breeze—
and into this fragrant songscape of dawn.

I asked Nima Simone to sing my song,
and she shook her head and said,
"Those words must rise within my soul to grow."
I reached into the sea to settle my questions,
but where I roamed, the sky stretched beyond limits,
and I fell into an understanding—
I may never find myself unrestrained.
I asked her to lead me to it,
and like drums that splash,
her hands danced in rhythmic time,
alive in the flames,
untouched by the rush of rivers.
It was blood boiling, carried by the wind.
I saw the wild run into the day,
like untamed willows, their whispers calling me
deeper into shadowed woods.
The dark, sharp night cried out,
never to return within this sight,
yet a mighty chant swelled and grew.

I asked Nina Simone to give me her torch
so I could chase it down.
Instead, she gave me women dancing with poles,
spinning me into a spiral knot.
In my trance, I felt the need to hold—
My bones braided in their woven cloth.
They rushed in a swirl, filling my mind.
I grabbed and grasped to carry the voice,
but their chatter pierced, opening a hole
to the land within myself, I fled.
They danced in the ochre rhyme,
like cave walls swaying with ancient grace.
They danced in time, untouched by today's reclamation,
filling the void with primal relief.
They danced in flaming wreaths,
casting words hidden by the past,
shadows of power etched in their steps.
Shadows of flames leaped forward into me,
pulse to step, sparking a new man.
Pulse to bind, shaping my hands.
Power.
I know the drain; they left me beneath the deck in chains.
Power.
They took my wheat; they ate my sheep.
Power.
I lay broken on the street,
a bottle shattering into mirrored shards,
reflecting my sallow, forceful remains.
Power ignited when I reclaimed myself.

I asked Nina Simone to march with me,
and she parted water within water,
revealing the drowned voice beneath.
The currents shaped a path, pressing the beat of sovereignty,
a rhythm that cleared the grime and dirt beneath our feet,
pushing us beyond the calls of restraint.
Now, the action rises on the polished stones we tread,
each step striking the pulse of autonomy we claim.
The beat became a surge,
the beat becomes our voice,
a mighty clash began where darkness folded—
its shadows gleamed with newfound power.
Yet we marched to the apex with tender bodies,
our flesh raw from the struggles of our true selves.
Still, our skin bore the marks of the linkage,
The chains, the rope, the shards inscribed deep,
like an eternal flame of retribution—
a testament to the blaze we refuse to extinguish.

I asked Nina Simone to hold me in somber lights,
and like a melancholy trumpet in the rain,
she answered softly
like the sway of a leaf drifting away.
I saw a reflection, fragile as a stream,
its ripples lingering on her piano strings,
each key striking a resonance within me.
My soft body undulated,
folding into the voice I used to know.
It was lost—left in the misty hills of Honey Dew pleads,
a sound like a pastime, a flirty knowledge,
dangling like forbidden fruit on a tree.
I lay alone beneath starry skies,
their tidal flames, reflections of battles in her tender eyes.

On a wispy spring day, donning spotted hoods,
Lily and Seaside dwelled in a cottage in the woods.
White light dappled as a red cardinal sang,
Marking the start of friendships, where dreams hang.

Their days were awash in hues, sunny and warm;
They painted themselves as mushrooms amidst a pollen storm.
Laughter and omens mingled in their lair,
Buds unfurl visions in the serpentine air.

Lily, the eldest, with astonishing bright,
Embellishing their world with radiant light.
Her pleasant glow embraced Seaside, tall and witty,
Together, they crafted a cottage so pretty.

Lily's warmth, a cocoon in the darkest hours,
And Seaside's calm is a shelter in life's showers.
In each accord, they faced the unknown,
With courage and love, their true strength is shown.

Adorned in mushroom hats with stylish flair,
Lily designed interiors with meticulous care.
Her tools, precise as a sable brush,
Each stroke unveiled a plush fungal lush.

Generally decorative flutterings,
Lily's fine tips add to the colorings.
Patterns of nature, intricate and novel,
Brought their shoreline home to unravel.

Around the woodland retreat, pine trees stood,
A woven array of canopies, a noble neighborhood.
Seaside knew every limb and its sway,
Her honesty was the highest way.

She chose the sprawl of the vast landscape,
Pitched tents and left them to freely drape.
Leads with courage down each treacherous path,
Her internal compass always did the math.

One day, in a field of flowers, they ventured,
Seeking pigments for their mural, time surrendered.
Lily found white and red dappled fungi,
It lifted their vibrance immediately sky-high.

Petals and spores danced in the gentle breeze,
As they gathered colors beneath the swaying trees.
Fanciful as fairies, their giggling rings free,
Hearts merry, pixies wild with glee.

Collecting pigments, assuming as they please,
Scouring the fields with ease and release.
Soon enough, amidst the floral sea,
They started to sneeze, their laughter a symphony.

Billows roll, a deep dredge of sound blasts afar,
Fog horns boom as racing boats play below the sandbar.
The Wind arrives on a gleam that wavers with the sun,
Like a rising tide, ships ascend with their mighty run.

"Hello, good day to you, I am the Wind,
Gentle with spring breeze, a whispered kin.
I lay as soft as petals upon the dawn,
Yet strike with the luster of precious metals drawn.

I embrace all forms yet hold none in pride,
In hollow spaces, my echoes bide,
A warning brews within my call,
Signaling the battery's enthralling brawl.

Verbose, I am, with tales to be told,
A future barren, left where ravens hold.
Travel with love and undaunted spirit,
Even as sinister storms draw near it."

The girls were amused by the windy day,
Ignoring the brief news it had to say,
"Exuberance!" they shout, "Petite our play,"
The Wind fell silent, "We choose to stay!"

They foraged while a strong current ruffled their hair,
Unnoticed, the day turned, showing an unfair glare.
Thunderstorms rumbled, a coming threat,
Nature's tempests are a challenge to be met.

Lily and Seaside, faced with the storm's might,
Pressed on, determined, through fading light.
Lightning split the sky, a fierce, bright flare,
Yet they pushed onward, brave beyond compare.

In their eyes, colors blend with rain in a dance,
The field transformed into a watercolor expanse.
Each step forward was a brushstroke, bold,
Painting a tale of courage, unearthing gold.

Seaside slipped into the misty haze,
And slid within a seabuckthorn maze.
Lost in the spell of dim turmoil,
Seaside took out her shell to burn the spotlight oil.

The view from the dunes reached beyond the horizon,
Purple stars glittered in the sun's cosmic verizon.
Distant cliffs echoed haunting tales begun,
Deep dread and midnight blue, the night's web spun.

Bracing their fears, with hands tightly clenched,
They led each other through darkness, hearts wrenched.
A murder of crows circled, shadows poised to mock,
Teeth chattered, sounding through the rumbling rock.

They looked about; each glance revealed a mystery,
Forever riding seaward in a turbulent history,
The mighty shoreline swelled
Engulfing all that found abode and dwelled.

Thunder rolls, shadows cast dark grief on cliff walls,
A cascade of strobes reveals ominous shapes in silver falls.
Medusa transforms, now a skeletal pile,
Dismembered and flawed, reassembled in vile style.

Voices echo around the vast abyss,
Recounting a dire promise:
"Snakes and wormy goo, a strong brew,
The shadows are ready for you.

I bear wrapped in coils of tight despair,
My plight stands alone beyond compare.
I embody the most profound dread,
A truth is revealed only when you're dead.

Obsessed with wealth, my life's course,
Never enough, driven by insatiable force;
Greedy toads now stand in place of feet,
In relentless pursuit, never complete.

Doomed for collection, now I seek those who hoard,
Peering into shadows, searching, never ignored.
Live with conviction; a mission for you; I dare,
Or find my gaze fixed in a cold, unyielding stare."

Haunted by the presence and then deeply hypnotized,
The shadows transform into shapes the girls fantasized.
Menacing forms now gleam as treasures by the shore,
The items glisten, and the shadows convey more.

Spiral shells, purple dyes for royal pursuits.
Amber honey beads, brilliant in shiny boots.
Polished rocks, a sparkly set for collection,
Magical dust, bags brimming, mirrors ready for reflection.

Lily reached for the Fabergé Egg, aglow with a rosy flush,
An opulent looking-glass within, inviting her to wear blush.
Mesmerizing shadows, jewels sparkled bright,
Beckoning with a flash, "Come with me into the night."

They felt a seaborn rip tide inside, overwhelmed, mummified.
Between the riches and their mural, their mission was clarified.
A choice was made at that instant: "Pigments or this treasure?"
Lightning rushed, and the girls were scared in dreadful measure.

They had ignored Wind's alarm unfurled.
Doused bags, stains spilling, now swirled.
The rains washed away their mural's glow.
With a sudden crash, the current took colors in its flow.

They must contend with what will transpire.
On the shoreline, everything they desire.
Rain soaking away the colors to create
Haunted by the tales of a Greedy Toad's fate.

A red flash set the rock to a white glare.
The atmosphere hummed with an electric flare.
A decision was made to grab the pollen bags
And find a path to escape the snags.

They race to flee or fault destiny to the adorner,
Shadows loom large around every corner.
Into a hollow, a shelter sure and fair, where they can moor,
Safe from the dark and the encroaching horror.

Lost but safe, they closed their eyes, thinking of home,
The best place to be when the world is soaked in seafoam.
Held tightly, their vision clear,
Quick as a needle, precise, and dear.

Mortar and pestle at work, herbs ground to a fine powder,
A purée for a refreshing mint chowder.
Kindling, iron, and flint, a fireplace remained lit,
Looms and magic cards, a cozy place to knit.

Tea and mending kits, a brightened patchwork to inspire
A friendly kettle gently seeped by the fire
They nestled, snug, in a warm cocoon,
Yearning for home to return soon.

Beneath the watchful eyes of Eldertree,
The breeze whispered gentle serenity.
Pleasantly lingering without intensity,
Releasing unease, a reminder of plenty.

Ancient and grand, roots meander the woodland.
A dignified force, Eldertree held command.
Its leaves rustled tales of old, strength so bold,
Guarding Lily and Seaside in its hollow fold.

As thunder roared and lightning cleaved the sky,
Eldertree's branches covered, a strength to stand by.
The shadows flickered, a reminder of the fierce stage.
Its trunk was steadfast, towering any rage.

In quiet moments, by Eldertree's mossy words,
Verdant scents of sweet pine and air full of birds.
Their visions came to life with this new start,
As the tree passed on wisdom directly from its heart.

"In every leaf, a symbol to read,
Each note imparts new meaning to heed.
In every branch, a bridge to extend,
This woodland realm is yours to defend.

Grow deep your roots, rise as mighty shoots,
Taste the splendid fruits,
Treat the earth as a well,
Where wisdom dwells.

The brighter your dreams, the deeper you must probe,
Balance on a limb, survey the globe.
Create and shape, make it grand,
We're interlinked by this land.

Make the most of it all,
Do it brilliantly as the fall,
Here I stand to echo your call,
Stride forth, elevate, march tall."

Never lost in its wise word embrace,
Lily and Seaside felt Eldertree's grace,
For the tree that stood fearless, a guardian lifelong.
They sang in gratitude, voices clear and strong.

"We gathered colors all morning,
The Wind blew without warning.
At the bay's edge, rough and gray,
A magical pollen storm filled the day.

Excited, we saw mushrooms match our hoods,
Then, we marched home to our cabin in the woods.
Lost in a seabuckthorn haze, trapped in a kaleidoscopic maze.
We saw shadows lurk with a bottomless gaze.

Dark thunder struck red and white,
It gleamed into us as deep as the night.
A crash and spill, an unspeakable deluge
Lost and doomed, we sought refuge.

Shadows loomed, flashing lights and rumble,
Fearful, huge rocks began to tumble.
Sea glass, amber, and polished stones washed ashore,
Tempting us to gather a pirate's loot and more.

Swells of terror and an unfair glare turned the tide,
But friendship became our steadfast guide.
We couldn't trade our home of care,
A place where dreams flourish without despair.

We trusted our balance held each other clearly
And knew honest friendship sincerely.
So we ventured back home to celebrate the fable,
With fine-tip brushes made of sable.

A mural painted in our cabin so warm,
Symbols for morals shaped by the storm.
Mighty fungus showered with pollen,
Revealing that our greatest fears had fallen."

The last huddling sounds of an abrupt storm subsided,
The awakening of a glorious gift it provided:
Eyes warm to the marvel of sublime dusk,
Colors sprouting from clouds like an ethereal husk.

Fresh winds pushed them forward with a steady flow,
Lily and Seaside took their paths with a topographic glow.
Leading to their cottage with inviting harmony
So they can share their heartfelt testimony.

In their snug, woodside retreat, a sweet haven,
Hummingbird cake, fairy bread, candles, dreams engraven.
Plans and memories, forever ensnared,
In this corner, a sanctuary declared.

Blueberries harvested, hands sore from toil,
Jams and baked goods, a labor of loyal.
Ties so precious, a bond strong and true,
Lily knew Seaside's presence, a constant hue.

Their genuine spirit of goodwill, discovered within,
The seed for flowering friendships to begin.
They hung their message proud.
Reciting a life vowed:

"We will cherish and protect the beauty all around,
Seeing the world as our canvas, inspiration found.
In every leaf, flower, and tree, our muse, we see,
Creating with respect and love for all things free.

We'll nurture our bond with trust and kind embrace,
Standing by each other through storms we face.
Our laughter, our tears, our joys, our fears,
Will strengthen our connection through the years.

We'll listen to the whispers of the Wind and trees,
Learning from the land and each other with ease.
Our intuition as our guide, clear and bright,
Leading us to choices with courage and light.

We'll use our talents to bring beauty and joy,
Painting dreams, sharing stories, pure and coy.
In every color, in every stroke, we'll strive,
To express our true selves, keeping dreams alive.

We'll walk our paths with honesty and grace,
Upholding values in every place.
With each step, a trail of charity we'll leave,
Empowering ourselves and those who believe."

Lily and Seaside welcome you to stay,
With a shoreline motif at the entryway.
Like a thread that finds its spread,
A plaque mounted on the door read:

Cede to the winds of warning,
Free your spirit of the adoring,
Look to the wisdom afar,
Use your heart as the guiding star.

Red and white dotted their hoods
Adorned with spring flowers, they stood in the noble woods
Colors blend in fine sable brushes
And cardinals sing tender hushes.

Envisioning life in wonder and earthly shades,
Seaside and Lily began to create so their muse never fades.
Glowing fungi in a pollen storm, angelic sights,
In their cozy cottage so warm, nature ignites.

I. The Poet

Little bird—smoke is rising. Where will you shine?
Wispy spring unlaces its windowed line.
Vast skies unfold like open panes of glass,
where feathers write the world as you pass.

You shimmer like stars on blue-oak-laid hills,
and red berries spill from thorned, patient quills.
You glide and sweep the horizon’s wide eye,
discovering green countries as you elude and fly.

Serpentine swallows dive into bubbling streams,
chasing the morning’s breath—faint as it gleams.
Fish twist in silver arcs, acrobatic leaves,
wealth under the river where it bends and weaves.

What calls will gather you there, little bird—
beyond those panes, a song still unheard?
Snowdrifts intone winter’s frost-bitten night,
yet warmth lingers—swaddled feathers held tight.

Western Blues shiver in unlit cold, drawing near,
their melodies quiver—spun thread of fear.
In humble hollows they gather as one,
seeking truth in the bloom of a coming sun.

Love is to feel what the frost will not show—
a gentle breath in a simple nest’s glow.

Fly now, little bird—these flames rise tall.
Cornflower skies tremble; snow cascades in free fall.
The world opens wide where melodies chase and flee,
whirling on thermal winds—bright, vividly.

Smoke and flashy flame leave us in peril’s shade,
but flight reveals a world where dreams won’t fade.
What you see as a floor need not bind for eternity—
shared imagination arcs into untouched infinity.

Fresh shapes stir deep in slumbering clay,
and we wake to sweet songs our hearts can play.

Escape this inferno—become something new:
a delicate girl in a gown of midnight blue.
Step into navy skies where coastal mists are mild,
where twilight lays its hush like a sleeping child.

Shipyards murmur, heavy with honest toil;
boats drift like ghosts past the smoky coil.
Heat grows thick; fumes cling like bitter dew—
our tender wings can’t carry all I tell you.

Still, faraway light seems truer in its gleam,
like a promise hiding inside a dream.

And I—if you’ll let me—will follow your flight through:
I’ll be the boy whose glowing eyes pursue.
I’ll warm your nights as the sun dips low,
and weave a nest where our quiet can grow.

In dark azure, where stars hang in suspense,
I’ll guard the space where love builds its defense.
I’ll return with certitudes—faithful and true,
like ravines that feed shores when the rains push through.

A dignified cause, quiet as rain in a growing puddle—
warm as your wings when we lie and cuddle.

Our bed will be soft—downy, feather-blessed,
pillows found where you stitch our rest.
When winter fades and summer takes hold,
we’ll shape this day as our dreams unfold.

Hands intertwined, we’ll rise toward a tune,
soaring on winds that will bring us home soon.
We’ll glide through rivers where ripples and leaves dance
into marvelous realms where our pursuits enhance.

So fly, little bird, through this window wide—
together we’ll soar side by side.

And while flames stretch high toward the sky,
our vow is written where black ravens can’t fly:
respect means we shape each arrow in a just quiver,
pausing to speak of stones skipped by a noble river.

We’ll nourish this willow with what we know,
sharing fertile lands with the world below.
Together, we’ll fly the course we define—
devotion to our flight, forever to shine.

---

II. The Bird

Dear poet—
in these smoky fires, I hear the way you plead,
and something in me softens, even as I read.

But I am made of distance. I am made of air—
of the unclaimed margin where the bright unknown is there.
Your melodies are beautiful; they make my pulse behave,
yet I cannot make a home inside another’s wave.

It takes wind I push out—chosen, fierce, and vast—
like darting through falling leaves to touch the sky at last.
Your voice is like a tempest, sweet enough to make me stay,
but there’s a rhythm outside I must learn to obey.

The crimson berries, the river’s silver seam—
I ache for the wildness of my untamed dream.
For stars may tremble, and roofs may hold,
but my heart is a compass that refuses to fold.

You speak of love—of shelter and warm,
of downy pillows, of a nest against storm.
And I believe you. I do. I know you mean it true—
but devotion becomes dangerous when it asks me to be you.

My spirit whispers of distant shores
where horizons stretch into something more.
I’ll dance with the mist; I’ll braid with the breeze,
chasing the moments that set me at ease.

I carry your tenderness—seed in my throat.
I will sing it high where the cliff winds note.
But my wings are mine. The sky calls me—
to fly where the world unfolds endlessly.

Perhaps one day we’ll meet in the open air,
not because you held me,
but because we arrived
by our own wind there.

---

III. Coda

What boundaries form between rivers running wide
when supple fir trees share the same roots on either side?

Emancipation takes flight under a current strong—
a wind I chose that carried me to where I belong.
I won’t cage you with mirrors reflecting my voice;
the willow branches offered will only weave your choice.

And if you return—
let it be as weather returns:
not captured,
not compelled,
but free—
and real.

Listen—as morning spurs the rhythmic drip,
drumming heft into the lien hours.

Rain traces the galvanized seam,
water striking the iron throat,
cotton murmurs a muted chord.

Cement, worn open by years, draws out the fall,
unraveling the spill in a weft—
stones clattering with the current,
wind twines their motion onward.

Shower beads along the tin roof,
sluices from the awning’s raw stretch—
a cascade daisy-chaining memory,

onto whispering panes,
where the light touch settles
as down swallows sleep.

Limbs bow beneath the gathered deluge,
rain sifting through swollen haze,
mist braided with heat’s silk.

Ashen chords of winter’s recall
drape the earth’s upheaving urge,

untethered from ribbons of daylight.

Fire’s heatprint settles underfoot;
this rain—ponderous, insistent—
draws tension across my edges.

The drain runs dark, coal-deep, sparking,
pouring to moss-thick bedding, steam urges upward.

Drenched in waking pressure,
pressed by waterlogged hours,

sound swells the room.

Like almond wood smoke lingering,
I rest, marrow steeped in folded silence,
embers settle a gentle ash brake—

dry, yet lips moistened,

barefoot recollection tugs at spring’s fringe.
I hum with it, pressed in its embrace.

I strike the yielding force—
pressing fingerprints into yours,
a maze of horizons forming
within the symmetry of being.
Each touch spreads,
a quiet echo unfolding on the surface.
I press this rod into the soft clay,
remembering the torn silence of paper—
how emptiness holds the whole.
Your desolate days scatter like ash,
unfixed, undefined,
marks that never settle into name.
I carve to let it breathe—
a wound that opens gently,
like your hands tracing me
but never reaching.
Contours speak where grasp fails.
It is time to shape.
I feel the threads beneath the skin—
fibers spun from what we once stood on,
now pulled by the weight of change.
I scream quietly
into the edge of becoming,
where suffering hums with purpose
and the search for cherished stones
gives meaning to the pain.
Fasten me to that momentum—
the strength of holding polished dignity.
Let me draw a line that remembers
without bending to intrusion.
I mark the earth with each step,
this rod my witness,
my course written in dust and resolve.
An unmistakable gesture,
I stand—weathered but firm,
shaped by the heat of care
and the sculpting hands of time.

I discovered her gray wool hat
stretched on the pine floor—
a silent dominion draped in stillness, waiting—
still warm with the shine of her memory,
like the faint glow of embers before they fade,
solid as resin, preserving bittersweet remnants.

I opened it slowly, pressed its soft folds to my face,
searching for the scent of her—
woven into the fabric
like a cherished keepsake of her breath.
I could almost detect the essence of her hair among the fibers,
calm as the silence between ocean waves and sun-warmed dunes.
It wove past the vibrant geraniums in the garden
and the protective silver blades of mugwort,
beyond the taste of salt-thick air,
where coastal fuchsias curl in secret bloom,
and into the tide,
swallowing the solitary footprints of a lone coyote,
leaving only the delicate fragrance of yellow lupine.

I lowered deeper into the hat’s intricate folds.
Her scent lingered—like smoke from split firewood,
sharp as streaks of light
through a pine forest thick with mist.
She gathered as a fragment of bloom in amber,
sap beading on her fingertips—
crystals of green and gold glistening,
cool and sticky, waiting to harden,
encased between her fingers,
warmed to pliancy by her touch,
molded just long enough to leave a trace,
but never long enough to remain—like smoke.

If I compress this wool, can I turn it into stone?
Can I make this soft pressure endure?
There are moments of irreversible touch,
where hardened shores nurture,
and yellow lupine blooms.
Yet she slips through the layers—
a breath caught in the whispering needles,
a thread mingling in the pine’s aroma,
a gentle weave within my hands,
like tender boughs bending toward release.
Her scent wraps me,
but she is nowhere to be found.

Her openness ignited a blaze—,
a devotion that could enclose life,
like a kiln transforming clay into noble vessels.
She traced the silhouette of my form,
a flame held within a glowing jar—
solidifying pressure against my skin,
pressing deep where my body speaks in bends.
Her furnace crowned the sparrows of my thoughts.
Her flames reached like hands
Her heat, a living body to embrace.
And in this hat, her incense—
winding a salve for my core to ignite.

I yearn to shield the crackle of our separation,
while voices sour like fruit left too long on the branch.
I long to soften the moment of harsh judgment—
yet the vanguard tempest’s cruelty strikes
with impenetrable authority,
like swells of misery
washing into barren lands.

I remember her tears falling onto my sheets,
snuffing out the embers of her rite,
spilling into a chaotic mess of unsorted ashes.
But can I find her scattered in those glowing seeds—
persisting in warmth beneath the smolder,
pushing into the light like a rising sun?

So I stand on this abiding horizon,
a lupine seed caught between my fingers—
delicate, like holding her in the forest,
too light to weigh the memory in surges,
yet it carries the whole of spring’s return.
Held in my palm with a vision to nurture,
still seeping with remnants like lingering perfume,
a source to center my reclamation.

And now, this gray hat, cradled gently in my hands—
a vessel that holds an endearing hunger,
a quiet question of where to bury this essence,
where to lay down the weight of time.
How do you fill what remains in empty hands?
So, I press this seed into woolen strands,
bound in the yearning that threads germination.

As I hold this interwoven landscape—
still warm with her memory
of a sea held in this gray wool hat,
ashen as the curling smoke rises in pine-scented air,
dim as the quiet pulse of absence that fills the void—
I press it close and ponder the season,
the breath that once warmed this wool,
and the return of the yellow lupine bloom.

Where I desire to write a simple song,
I find my thoughts unfurling soft and long,
Like sheets of clouds that drift across the sky,
I want these words to reach you where you lie,
To bridge the gap between this quiet space,
And guide me toward the wonders I embrace.

I lie within the softness I can't hear,
Gritty within the texture of your tear:
The hollow sound that wraps around the mount,
The patterns of your touch too vast to count.
It covers me with ease yet leaves me still,
Longing for release that time won't fill.
How do these intricacies rise and grow,
While simple beds lie veiled in shadowed glow?
The sounds echo with wings in flight,
Embodied in a rhythm grand, yet slight.

Moments pass like pillows made of thought,
Soft as birds that drift with no distraught,
Falling through the depths of sallow dark,
Like feathers cast at dawn's first brightened mark.
They glow as bright as suns in sweet release,
Soaring far on winds of tranquil peace,
Inviting you to rise and greet the light,
Wrapped in spun fog from the edge of night.

I long to write upon this bed of thread,
Like brooks that carve through valleys wide and spread.
Through rock and sand, these words will surely wind,
Eroding all, till only truth's defined.
They wear the solid down to tender seams,
Unraveling varieties within our dreams.

I lay my words in waters deep with birth,
Filled with verve, they tend to meaning's worth.
Can answers sprawl as words cross through the time,
And touch the awesome power of the sublime?
Like lines that stretch beyond the far horizon,
Can you respond to this vast, endless siren?

I wish to rest these words upon a page,
Like clay transformed within its fiery stage.
I mold them through a soft, malleable phase,
Then press them deep in nature's fleeting maze.
They dash and frolic like the winds through leaves,
Yet thread themselves in all the soul believes.

And here is where I stretch my hand to write—
Consumed by meaning's whispered, glowing light.
These words will cast their shadows far and wide,
But reach to touch them—watch them slip and slide.
Pull them down like strings from cloud-filled skies,
Wrap them around your core, and let them rise.
But in this woven blanket, soft and new,
You'll find the dew-dropped dreams that speak of you.

Where Deer Fall
Where deer fall
and break the tender grass,
she sang her song
for the flowers to go.
The water filled her lips,
and the wind bore her voice—
across the river,
through meandering fields,
into the stones
and the wooden gate.
Her song
freed the pain
of the fallen deer
in the tender grass.

And the Man of Gray Cloth
I am a man of gray cloth,
soft in the wall of dawn.
I heard her voice in the dew,
I listened as if it were you—
in the tender grass of day,
Where my foot is placed
in the hours
I have mourned.
for the flowers
that grow no more,
Her voice is gone
awashed too the shore.

A Crown of Delphiniums for Âu Cơ

Can I find you in the wooded mountains,
lying verdant beneath the vaulted sky?
Along the gentle bends of a creek's curve
nestled among the woodland and shooting stars,
a hundred wishes cradled
in the soft white petals of a trillium—
a birthroot gently cupping its promise,
rising through peaks like a fairy's lantern,
a balanced celebration of earth, sky, and step.

The starlight eases down like a tide,
glistening on these wishes,
anchored softly in a bed of maiden ferns—
tender expectancies in mosses
unfurling their scented spring verses.
They wrap the wishes in a blanket of hope,
moored to your branching dreams,
half your heart in the waves,
half in the whispering pines.

As you sleep, slide your foot into the lushness and feel
The night sky's current pulsing below—
an ancestral ocean shimmering with starry vitality,
brimming with the expansive dawn and dusk;
a midnight depth folding into leaves,
a daybreak blooming with reflection,
echos of colors longing for an embrace;
you stir in slumber with elegance.

Awake to the fragrance of spicebush—
a burgundy warmth against the great earth,
cloak steeped in the mint season,
a blanket of cinnamon stirring your senses.
It is bright like the radiant sun.
Its glow bends toward your reach,
bursting with crisp honey and sea salt.

Spring into the delphiniums,
swimming like blue dragons in bloom,
offering fiery breath
to the sun's rising altar.
They watch as still waters stir,
vernal veins pulsing awake from slumber,
Forging earth, stars, and sea
into a magnitude of blooms.

Was it longing that called you home,
When the tide could no longer hold the mountain's form?
Mother of root and wave—
These delphiniums are for you to hold,
As the ocean star holds its promise to protect.
Extend them like a wild hyacinth,
a bud of strength blooming in ocean light,
and ascend with care
into the bond of earth and starborn grace.

There are fields of brookside geraniums,
crying through dew-laced leaves
as you vanish into misted stone.
Place them as a crown upon your brow,
to shelter this sacred touch,
and walk into the woodland with tender feet.
Hear the ghost pipe call—
inviting the delphinium of this land to rise
in the clear water,
a pure blue dragon
cradling your wish,
returning as stars in your open hands,
unfolding mountain and sea dreams.