To listen to a gentle rippling

blues and folk melody

and realize its one

of yr own and you’re

sitting under the same

immeasurable sky of feeling

is just a joy of a jumping goat

who just escaped from the cutting of the throat

               —a hoarse wind reminds him

there is not much more to live

                                               and not much more to go

                                                         until he is left with nothing

                                                                        at all except the fertile

                                                                                       rich dark soil.

I am far too incomplete, far too of trembling,

once a child thought to be stronger than all of the others,

turned out to be the most sensitive and despairing and looming

darkness of them all, now he sits quietly awaiting a chance

at becoming something more—but how! a shivering

trembles down through his lungs to his knees,

there he shakes and withers like a weak

little orchard in the harshness of an

unseen and unheard of winter—

after that hurricanes shook

him down of all his bones

and fruits,

so he was left to rebegin,

everything must turn inside out.

A gentle wind passes each and every day

a moment goes by and another old

thought comes dancing my way,

a sobriety sweeps the floor

and cleans up the drunken

flood of dust long left

behind—it is here

where we find

the truth of

ceremony

and strength

in becoming what we are

—we must dance between storms to become whole—a whole is a flower

that seeks to unravel itself

after another rainy

day of seeking

the light of

the sun.

               God is with us

and hopes for us to

                             find the truth of the light.