Dame Nature

Modest and without presumptions, pursue nature with truth.

In the lush scenery step as though, progress is not a need.

Tread with the style in which…Dame Nature deems courtly

Picket fences no longer impede progress. no more than wilted, emerald…

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Dressing Gifts with Conflict

Watching the earth breathe in her simple needs…less a temptress or a priestess…but a tomboy…throwing sticks and stones.

Believing that all wants are the center of the storm.

Pointing a finger with a twisted twig at the way the better half lives.

Dressing our gifts with conflicts of bitter cold.

Yet, who has bullied who.

When will the breathing…not renew.

 

Mother Earth Has Called

The great deceiver?  These platelets of ice…leading me to believe ‘if I’ve stepped there once…I can step there twice!’

In the midst of the fall, hanging vaguely onto drawing myself near to dear.

All I hear is, Mother Earth calling me…

‘I am the the greatest magician of them all.  One will never be able to stand on all that is borrowed.’

Naturalist Christmas

 

 

No way to know these woods well, to assume, they are my friends.

No way to examine sacrificed buildings,

to know if they have a hand to lend.

While routine holds fast to my wandering eye.

The purist in me believes, it is my love for recanted beauty that will get me by.

Long lasting and languid, as a lover’s kiss.

A slumbering, lumbering, shine.

Such as coffee, in my morning cup.

So, what of devotion offering a look up?

Freedom of thought.

Offerings mature in shredded leaf.

Matted frost prints, two feet, several precious paws.

Hints of frankincense from a misguided thaw.

There is no ambiguity between the rock and dust that is chilled in a worn path.

The floating heavens did not force my hand.

It is but grace that brought me here.

It is with grace I hope to hold that affinity dear.

 

 

 

 

 

Gasping for Tears

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If she had cried…would it take away the ghastliness of great surprise?

Even as a witness…to her rain…

A gentle, caressing touch that penetrates the skin.

Humidity and its warming coat…left gingerly behind…

Among this…could I begin, again?

As a crow flies, tears fall from the skies.

Yet, never from a solemn women’s eyes.

Water pounds like a fist coursing itself from the heavens.

The road ahead, still parched and unforgiving.

As the crow flies, tears fall from the skies.

Yet, never from a solemn women’s eyes.