The shy-grass dresses For morning guests, and old doves Sing softly of it
... on a spring day.
the breathing waters, a whisper in the sea-oats saying, “you belong”
beneath gray hangings nine voices across the field long for sooner spring
spare, cold interstice: a winter tree awaiting her deliverance
we were showered by the prismatic flower rain and loved completely [The authors of this blog would like to categorically state that they are not on drugs. No, really.]
fall, in its shyness sends out whispers on the breeze heard only by sight
dealing with life, you close your eyes to feel something other than alone