Poetry
Against Ourselves
After the Ides of March, four hundred / thousand pure casualties. / Darkness stole the glossy white pearl / Icy tundra untainted, solitary.
The I Am
You ARE a moment/ you are a mystery/ blooming into infinity
Contentment
I am content to know/ The protecting embrace of a maple/ Shielding me/ From harsh January winds/
A Sated Soul
Were I born with paws,/ would my footsteps move less earth?/ Were I covered in fur,/ would cotton stay bound to its burrs?/
Tortula Ruralis
Each pellucid drop glides down the awns/ and nestles between the verdant folds./ The small green leaves and drop embrace,/ To uncurl with the morning dew./
Their Grasses, Their Reasons
Dawn breaks along with/ the farmer’s spirit./ He rises/ just to kneel down in prayer./