first day
of an open flower
essence of faithh-218_phixr


simple songs
that reach
soft cloud dawns
of the soul b-3063_phixr


along the bridges
a welling deep in silver dance,
a smallest gesture
soft with purpose

a hint of lilacs on the porch
of musing february

the confluence of cloud soul
and heartbeats

spring’s devotion


the orient forest veiled
each nightjar’s shelter
while sky pondered the eve of spring
with warm onyx breath
in the dark of sleepwalking rain

and by the morning
from the fragrant soil
of a pilgrim mountain
they emerged, brimming
with dew and shine

vernal songs of stars

b-982_phixr (1)


‘quand le vent
a tout dispersé,

only ever waiting
with soft foggy swans,
only ever dreaming

remembering you
in the shadow of cedar stillness
or in silence of winter willow stars

past the world
past it all
your epiphany

without return

the hawks were gathering around, hungry for light and attention. unmasked.
once she thought they were wonderbirds, tenderly floating around the field. until silence closed her eyes.
suddenly, in the sanctuary of quiet darkness she began to feel the ache of their bites.
when time opened her eyes, they did the same. biting.
she found strength to leave the vast field, although it was hard to realize for her those were the same birds who once she spent some soft moments with.
she walks along other fields now, without return. lonelier fields, but much closer to her soul.

and the sky
it’s always the same deep peace
wherever she is


and all the ones
hurrying to New Year parties
with cakes, balloons and fireworks
didn’t notice a raven-haired flutist
playing Jolivet near the underground

but she didn’t really need
to be noticed by anyone.
immersed in daily celebration
of seasons, symphonic winds,
of how particles of earth merged
with harmonies of stardust

giving thanks
to those who stopped to listen
and giving thanks
to those who didn’t.

simply melting
the soft of darknesses
into a melody of night


there are no words in some songs
as there are no answers to some questions.
does a tree realize why leaves fall
or why blizzards arrive
or why the drought withers its sylvan essence
that strives to reflect immaculate heights?

what’s left is to grow upwards
shaped with whatever wonder or miracle it cannot see
but feels in the ways of breeze.
and maybe to breathe like this
is to shimmer a tune for the linger of a moment
giving a way to infinite silence.
to flow the shadow as a deep acceptance
of what it blooms to still stay visible
to fragility of moon and softness of the sun.
because what this gravity is for
but to live eternity of his piano flight