Some say a poem is supposed to rhyme
Though many don’t every time...

My gratitude for the eternal golden light of...
Flooding my lonely darknesses...

I crossed a border recently
It was a conscious, careful crossing...

Sometimes the fog of numbness lifts for a minute
And I find myself hard up against the grief...

Sounds repeated
empty of meaning...

In the curve of her back I could see her pain
and that her very light was dimmed...

Cicadas thrum,
their golden net a hammock for memories of summer...

In meditation, floating in the ocean of...
Sometimes...

I thought I was there for them
I so much wanted to be there for them...

In the dripping dark,
Deep, deep underground...

In the calm vibrant stillness of meditation,
Enjoying the Isness of my Being...

Is it a choice,
To allow the winds of other’s storms...