song of the honey bee

if you talk sweet enough,

you can usually get your words to

drip like honey from a spoon-

you can convince a swarm of bees

to follow you around…

but words don’t bring the rainfall,

don’t make the seasons change or the trees grow tall,

words alone won’t coax the tender seed

into becoming what it was meant to be,

won’t fix the spaces of earth

we’ve walked destructively.

Only love can do that-

for love is tender where talk is only sweet.

wave

one year later

and all your stuff started showing up here.

a refrigerator washed ashore-

contents rotten and expired,

forgotten...

we could send it back

but the memories (once held

by a magnetic force)

have drifted off somewhere

and we aren't sure how to fill

the empty space they've left behind

search

I search the corners (of this earth) gone wild

I, the potter's daughter

with clay in the cracks of my bones

alone-

I write words into the ground as seeds,

I knit lavender into my sweater seams,

and look for cracks in walls.

I ride my bike through crowded streets,

I recycle my worn-out dreams,

and look towards the rim of the skies.

In my quest I've felt

     the painful wind

     the rainfall in     -discriminate

and have outgrown these shoes

and needing a hope to cling to

(a hope to step into)

I search the corners (of this earth)

gone wild. 

garden poem

sometimes I seek out the silence
planted in my heart's soil,
the garden home to my soul.
I move wordlessly,
upon the earth you tend to,
the earth you've breathed into
me.
Perusal.
in amongst the tallest trees,
I feel your breeze
my arms sway
stray blossoms make their way down
from the branches high above
they rain on me.
Pursual.
I am stirred by your song,
notes ring lovely and long
your voice-call
walls between us fall down
from around this planted heart
you reign in me.
the Gardener, my Garden Father.