5 Pastels – 5

How easy to mock,
Other people’s priorities.

But a taste for beauty and order
Isn’t really a thing to mock —

For much in life is terrible or chaotic,
And even more is, in the last analysis,
Problematic, and unsolvable.

So, those who add something
To peace, or joy, or wellbeing,
Are among

The angels

Cycles of The Earth and Season

Cycles of the earth and season,
Water, air, and ground in one;
Though each one is short to reason
On the whole it’s never done

Rich in wisdom then amassing,
Land and water, air above,
So we know of growth and passing,
So we know of life

And love

the distant lake

o love, you knew, and i did not.
the weather changed, the tension grew,
and all i hoped i though i knew
went crumbling away, like dust
that blows out windows towards
the distant lake.

o heart, you held on to the truth:
that seasons tell us what is real,
that what we do shows what we feel;
that words we don’t say must
like rising waters one day

  a whole that lives in parts,
  continuation, layered bits of starts,
  a heart that knows its own, its blood,
  and love that thrives, even upon the flood —

there is no other way, no happy way.
the sun went down on fading day
where once again, you chose to stay
while i some far horizon sought,
not knowing what i loved the most
was close at hand, but could be never



one of the best restaurants in my town
seats, at most, about twenty-five;
we were there tonight, and this:
my stars! was that food good —

a group of four came in, first time,
and “special ordered” like you do
when ordering commodities :
knowing they wouldn’t like the taste
of food they’d never ever had before.

because, it’s all the same, you see;
when you prejudge, it always saves you
recognizing anything as new –
outside your categories –

like people do with restaurants, and

with other people

The Grove

I woke. My people turned to trees.
Then wondered, if I had the chance
Could I, too, with the cold winds learn
  to dance?
It is the grove that gives us life.
The sun, the soil that we share,
The tears of those who watch o’erhead,
  their left-by mulch, subconsciously aware —
I sleep; my people growing tall.
Now am I just too fast to feel
The slower dance that’s only dreamed,
  but far more