The hardest thing to do is wait.
But you and I don't watch flowers grow
moment by moment, do we? There is much
too much
distraction to move us
from sitting
still like that number always falling in time,
minute after minute on the edge of
a thin red line between this and that.

Meditating or procrastinating,
it matters little or nothing
if life depends not on human beings
noticing blue skies, lilies, and seashells along their way.
The Sistine Chapel points no fingers
above or below
if the modern Madonna is empty-handed, white
with stone.
I don't know why I
should live this moment in eternity
with you.

Do you?

Astral bodies remember their bliss sometimes
and we can walk somewhere but don't remember
where we've been much less how we'll get back.
Our days
are numbered. If a tree falling
in the forest can be heard by someone
or another far enough away, will we live to see infinity
in the bones
of stardust and lucid memory?

Yellow ribbons mark the place,
tied to a song
that sings
to know itself again for the first time.
It's all I can hope for, I think. And hope makes
the knot stronger.
I do not wither away
with the flowers
and neither do you.

When the day breaks in beauty,
who can speak of its cruelty?

Aren't all our poems a weird combination of story/poem/diary/tome?

Sometimes they even include our shadow-side. ;-)

Thanks to you,
I would never fling poo,
it's not the desert I would wear
in my hair,
smelling sweetly
and discretely,
lavender green
and mellow yellow,
shades of brown,
shades of black.

;-)

~A

and