All I want’s a window Where stellars in the fog Dogfight with the finches As I lay here and log The reasons I adore you A sparrow made to sing Wrapped in grey and pale blue And wearing my gift ring.
These little lines fit only here Wherein the rhymes I see appear A world on page I might traverse From age to age, a universe.
We write forgotten, before our formed Worlds are begotten they stretch unmourned; Our pens adrift and pages void, Language abandoned once deployed; We are un-listened, but by one Ear, Where each note’s christened, retained and dear.
The window hangs a scene, Where patient trees in frame, Stand silhouettes of green In oil we’ve yet to name. The vision breathes in flight, As birds with every stroke, Caress the morning bright While heavy pens are woke. The window hangs a scene, More lovely to be sure, Than Turner’s finest dreamRead more
“Why must we only toil, The roof and crown of things?” – the inner spirit cries. “All things must toil.” – signs the wild world over. “Leaves covert, grass reaches, Rivers run mile on mile, waves lay shift on shift. All things must toil, and strive Till Kingdom come – the breath all things hopeRead more
I am not an orphan Nameless with no home. I am not deserted Abandoned, lost, alone. I am not forgotten Misplaced and overlooked. I am not some missing link A theory bound and booked. For I have a Father And he shows me how To be who he has made me Today, right here, rightRead more
She swims away to collect Not shells but self Not pearls but thoughts, Treasure to me, delicate and Dear as a break in the clouds. She swims away to draw Closer in heart and mind, Displacing the distance with Every stroke and every breath Till miles out is near again.
What shade is this before me? This figure, obscured by down and Drifting into deep? Not a shade but a light. Not a what but a who on Whom his favour rests.
It drives – This ambient bath the world Crawls into. A grey we are At home in. An old, soft Sweater or our parent’s bed.
Cloud, conifer, wet root And black earth accompany a Solitude the song sparrow Cheerily disrupts at my tread. Tower you, a textured text Of mountain, season over season. Drawing deeper breath The inner thud slows. How long since you were a sapling?