Jubilee’s Stance

Crows have picked all sanctimonious bones from my husk, so over the hill

Doubts hurl about in the frenzy of drafty April’s afternoon

Theologians with their vestments of velvet billowing from the tundras

could never let their fibers flounder in the stance of this jubilee

This epiphany defies sectarian gospel

So much so, any shallow impetus…neither could not or would not, draw a rebirth improvisation from established misery

A sense of victory weaves as poetic vines in circles around the lies once fed

The earth does not grow beneath a prostrate bed


Transference of Power

Perplexing, how it is done, shut off one light.

And, a new season has begun.

Brown, no longer, brown…it is everything.

The war of winter and wind pulsing through wooded veins,

Whispers of curses among all that is not public domain.

But in the end, unlike no breathable battle in history.

An auspicious transference of power…ends with only beauty.