I see thorns on the rose bush wind
To the sky
Know that the light will feel warm
After the storm has torn away my forlorn dismay
Roots in the mud
Of my mind
And I shoot out buds on the vine.
Aroma meets the air
And my well watered petals
Unfurl and settle their contours right here.
I go I always know
The white pearl’s alabaster glow
Even when the Atlantic’s undertow is near
Somehow I burrow and stow it in the sound that you hear.
I must go wherever the wind
Never to be pinned
Lest I lessen
The blessings within.
To the slaughterer infesting our water:
You will never win
Is to have ridden your claim
Out of town—
Where the violin of a cricket
Is hidden never to be found.
I like the softened, simple song of a singer
Who often feels frowns peel—
Revealing dimples above the smiles of the listener’s that stay awhile—
Like how spring time smells
Dispel a well worn winter from stuffy lapels.