Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns

F-13 1738 words

Sandhill Cranes

up making noise, that’s all.

Tearing away the morning mist,
sunrise from the east,
the flame of life,
perfection divined,
in spring-scented symmetry.

Heralded by hyacinths,
the joy of the soul
teasing reason,
on hope’s meaning.

The passion of being born,
pre-curser to pain,
stretched along a lifetime,
from mortals expecting
love everlasting,
as if flying in dreams.

Yet, the only thing predictable
is change,
to be met with humor,
through the choreography of living,
without any rehearsals,
in a heartless world.

The intent, no doubt,
is to be human,
but to be like a bird as well,
a prophetic beauty
sailing in the shifting wind,
without flaunting
arrogance.


Dreams

What are dreams anyway?
When we are too tired to walk,
they are those that carry us
on their backs
and they enter into
every place,
even the stone chambers of the heart,
so, we can clutch on to them
as if life savers.
Dreams are the mirrors we look into
to witness
the beauty of it all,
if the wind catches our fancy
and ripples it
for savoring,
even if
for a short moment.