Richer than...

Richer than southern

                 soul food.  Succulent,  I savor the taste 

                    of your words, let the wisdom 

      roll slowly over my tongue and through my mind. 

                           Even the presentation, dramatic, like morning glories, 

                                                            doing their showy thing 

first thing. Daybreak their cue and ‘'Vivid - now, go!”, making 

                                                                            me want to bend right 

                                                                                                    into 

you so I can pop like that.  I want to 

                           live on those branches, hold such potential. Sway, too, 

                                 to the 

song of sunlight. 

I want 

      to unlearn the tricks of dark, the twists of night and instead, sup with you 

for breakfast. But the push and pull remains, as the circle of the seasons, 

                the cycles of dawn-to-dark, .  Can I remember though, that 

               that’s the 

                 thing?  To stop the effort, give in to rest, relax, 

while you sink in.  You come, always, mighty as a river, energy to overtake 

                                     my strivings. Your strength 

                                           shows forth, your power, when I at last admit 

                                                                                        I’m weak.  And 

                                                                                        it’s 

                                                                                        in the breath. 

Yours and mine. The breath you gave me and breathing in –an exchange. 

                More of you and less of me.  Just glance my way and let me 

catch it.  Bring to mind that melody that once I knew, of sweet refrain and 

                                                                     ease.because I don’t fear the 

                                                                                                   fire. 

The flames, they heal me, warm me and I want it, wild,.to overtake.  Make 

         me flexible for 

the forming, melt 

         me for the molding. I am yielding because your hands, strong, 

                                                                                 not forceful, but kind 

and gentle, and altogether 

        good are compelling me to good.

wordle 52