Migration

Finding our north, we fly
over the tops of mountains,
white-petalled stonecrop, stars
beneath our wings.

Wild roar of the waterfalls
echoes in our ears;
we are bathed in rainbows
and quenched by the rising mist.

Center of the solar system
we soar atop our kingdom;
time unfolds in the wingspan
of ancient memory.

Gliding over a thousand years
of storm-washed stone,
we hover at the edge of day,
instinctively knowing
we are headed for home.

Pieces of Dream

moonlight lacing the pines
magnolia branch heavy with bloom
scenting the dew

ten million stars afloat on the pond
where an ancient stone wall
falls into moss

the whisper of a heart shaped leaf
skittering in soft breeze
like a page turned by a gentle hand

an owl call from high up in the limbs
the sound of an old song
tracing its way through the mind

let me linger here
in the bliss of such peace,
in the gratitude of being

Stained Glass

This life with its nicks and scratches,
a puzzle to be reckoned with
as we cement the parts that link
without resistance and work to smooth
sharp edges that defy the fit.

Mosaic shards, lots of glue and grout
to hold it all together; sometimes less
is more. Occluded cracks and crazes
become a confessional,
God, it’s dark in here.

Sharp edges tear the flesh. We live and die
on stepping stones too far apart for mere
mortals,  but the effort  of the stretch
is soon forgotten when the sun
comes shining through.