The Violet and the Pine

Late April sunshine
lays heavy on my face and shoulders
a reminder of the deadline to decide
what will define the depths of my soul

Le jardin d'amour
is damp with ethereal beauty
crafted painstakingly,
a monument to the
richness of life.

I am caught between
the regal, seductive violet
and the fresh, handsome pine
unable to choose,
unable to let go

The horizon, littered with the two
offers no aid to
the impossible choice
that lies ahead

I stand on a cliff at the edge of the universe,
just barely kissing the sky,
breathe them both deeply into my heart
and jump.

Finer Stuff

The soul is made of finer stuff

Than frankincense and myrrh

It’s made of all the dreams and thoughts

That hum and tick and whirr

About the cold and barren nights

And blow along the breeze

The soul is made of starlight

That paints the night with ease

A symphony of winter tea

That whirls about the mind

It crests and falls and overall

The soul is tough to find

A silken sheet, a crimson peace

To lay upon at night

The soul is made of finer stuff

The soul is made of light.