Sunlight Through Petals

The garden at dawn, early morning

outside space.

Sunlight shines through petals.

Mere purple turns to violet,

white shines brighter; the light

illuminates the tight spun-sugar wires of webs

linking leaf to stem, bud to branch.

It is too early for the human stain.

Ants crawl by my feet, just as busy and aimless.

Birds sing to me, trilling cadences

thrilling the ear with their unfathomable

messages of life and hope.

There is a faint perfume, the residue of some

night scented bloom

that needs the intimacy of night

to hide it’s beauty.

From three million miles away

the sun paints my face with warmth.

The empty, cloudless sky

has never been more blue.

This world is a wonder.

If I have to leave it,

let it be on a day like this,

not wrapped in the shrouded gloom

of bedclothes and room.

Let me go out

outside,

smiling.

I Think Of It All

When the only thing you have to do is live,

not make or earn or serve or do,

what you do instead is think.

You think about you.

You always think about you,

but not always so purely,

so completely,

so utterly focused

on you.

And when you think too much,

you start to think like this.

You are not just part of existence,

you are all of it,

because without you,

without you as the witness

to the star farms and quarks,

the sound of seashore surf,

to jasmine scent, or the smell

of a wordless child’s head,

to the unutterable beauty

of bird feathers and snowflakes,

without you as the witness,

it is not there.

The Season Unseen

Spring.

The season of seasons, this season, unseen.

All around, the green, the jade and emerald

jewels of leaves and buds burst with life,

out of sight. Sunlight blesses sullen earth,

raises tendrils, like the green fingers

of soiled hands in prayer,

to greet it with a drowsy wave.

The frowsy days drift by.

Birds bicker and palaver in trees.

These we see, though from afar,

from a distance as safe for them

as for us. They twitter and breathe

unexpected air, drink sweeter water,

purer and clearer than they have known

before. People prisoned by the present

that we do not wish to give

do not see the glory of the season

that carries on without our attention.

It carries on, free of us, unseen, unsung.

Spring is sprung.