In this mild winter breeze of splintered selves
The trees blend into silhouttes; and I see elves
Whose shadows transform perceptions
Into creations. And all the world of
Getting and spending grinds to a halt,
For one holy day. Death may be near at hand or far
Away, we have no crystal ball. We must put
All our heart and soul into conveying the simplicity of love
To those lying bereft of love & suffering on a far-shore wondering
What is life for? Why do the wicked prosper?
Why do all my actions end in the suicide of self?
Grinding me into the narrow confines of convention
Freeing me to transpose into the mothers of invention.