At sometime, on a simple day,
the gift of wind will fill you
with the fullness of freedom.

Your words will bathe in the
rain, inhale the divine mood,
during the baby eclipse.

Souls will stroll for their last
visit, inhale the gifts stitched
by oil lamps, while you stir
your feet in the mud.
Your knees will tremble, elbows
will give way.  Did it bother you
at all that I should fall like a
magnolia in a summer draught?

Fingers super small, can't stop the
sprawl nor reach the call.

Turn off the phones.  Life is quieter
that way.  Birds'  wings don't make
up all the falls we have been through
since

the box was returned, useless now;
freedom lives within.
Drive those cars around
burn up the ozone;  it doesn't
matter to dying me.  I jumped
off the wrong bed, into the cold
and wintry snow.

Rainbows and angels blend in
the sky, flopping their wings,
saying good-bye.  Parchment
paper unrolls;  speaks to the
untold of unrest and unease
that unfolds words inside
bosoms to tell new stories,
bring new life, spread pollen.

Do what you think you should
days are simple and full of
freedom;  you rise, walk the
river to the other shore.

Waiting for you are more great
waves to whirl you up to the
heavens.

Solace.  Who could ask for more?
Spin yourself to wake up in gems

dreamy, creamy in colors you have
never seen before.