In the orchard of my heart
even those peaches with skin
like cast iron, will
be kneaded soft with time
tender pasts grow sweet
time washes away
any dirt that dare interrupt
idle fantasy
The world is a rag-tag
collection of things that
aspire to be simple,
to stand on their own
cry loud their strength
a wanderer
with laugh lines well-set,
as like a love letter folded
ten thousand times
will find beauty bursting from
each corner-
the ground, the sky, the wind
each new pulse joins innumerable
others
and where one wonder ends
and the
next one begins,
matters not.
Petals crowding, swirling
in a gyre, each melon-pink
awaiting their final fall
where they will lie,
for a beautiful soundless wake.
Unspoken Politics 