A winter blossoming
In this mild mid-winter breeze of splintered selves
The trees blend into silhouttes; and I see elves
Whose shadows transform perceptions
Into creation. And all the world of
Getting and spending grinds to a halt,
For one holy day. Death may be far away or near
At hand, we have no crystal balls. 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 my self?
Grinding me into the narrow confines of convention
And, yet, freeing me to expand into these mothers of invention.