Category: Poetry

You see, I had
this
splinter
a red ring at the base

If poetry has motion, I can feel it’s pulse
It ends where it begins
^ deep in the numinous heart of all

what is it, this
pale February fire-bird
?

wingtips cutting the blue,

No winter is like
the winter
we deal to ourselves
No spring is like

Are you the one onto whom
silence and dreams unfold?

( If you can let go –
can bear to wait
someone will happen
that you won’t see coming )