All winter long the little seeds have slept in the bossom of mother earth
Each time the moon came round the ocean tide rose with desire
through the snow into the brave new world comes crocus
to be picked to color your grandma’s saffron rice
If I could be a spice I think vetiver or sandal
… wood and I would meditate upon the
curve of your cheek and neck
and the beauty of the lady
in the moon we’re
graced with
by month
and
never
be alone
like birds who take to wing
in flocks the geese head home again
following the invisible path of their ancesters
or perhaps the calling of the souls to guide them
past all the clutter we have filled our miserable lives with
since we ran away from home and the garden where all our
fruits were grown to nourish our bodies and flowers our spirits
Lets find our way back through the dark night and valley of the shadow
of death to a shining place where we belong with happy hearts never
look back or weaving here and there or leave again or question what that is
