In overgrown brush, lush,
                   she sits
and waits amidst
       the thrush like chorus of outer work
and inner work and the silent
                                  science of it all,

                                  cultivating flora framework
                                               for the growth and fare and fair  
                                               of vintage
                                                 vineyard so
                                                          she may one day drink
abundantly
and have her
fill.  Bursting forth, exploding bloom, she
          surveys the work and knows full well that much
                    has come from one who started out
                                          with nothing. 
                                              Noontide
shimmers, glimmers graciously
with much ado, 
            aiding progress and she notices
                                                now the need,
                                                     the speed
                                                     that
brought, propels and gives.   
With singleness of heart, she
diligently shears – allows- that she, herself
might be grafted into this prized
                             place that she adores.  It’s
voiceless here ‘cept for the whisper of the wind
                             which she recognizes well and  
                                    she’s the only creature
                                           here 
and therefore safe. 
               She’s untamed and breathing, coming into life, domesticated,not.   It’s the sky that will train her.  She’ll take her
cues from hues and clouds, gladly
                              gulping rain. The wide world
                                                  waits but she
                                                             has
no wish to leave her habitat of heaven where, light, 
she’s buoyant body.  She knows not the
meaning of inhalation but steady, focused anyway, she
                              swills the air.  Staying is what
                              she
                             seizes, understands and toil,
                                instrumental which brings
                                                   her rest.

Showers
stream, mingling
with tears
         she can not
fathom, saturated
        so, by so much sufficient satisfaction.
                       How can she know so much and so
little and still be still? It’s the versant,
                                  virescent variegating
of veined but violet
   vision where introspection ripens into more than
      speculation and all
              is bare
                but beautiful
                      and beckons,
                           bright.  She doesn’t see her skin
                               here; it’s pallid colored but       
still allowed to blend with seed or star and she lodges,
                 burrowed, anchored to exist in absence of
herself.

                                           


Gooseberry