I live in hooded sweatshirts
On crisp mornings, with sun,
Yawning, and rocks with moss
Upon them, and the water overflowing
And swelling through the crags
To the sound of my heart flooded
With the prayers, passions and
Past of a child still finding logs 
And leaves in the moving stream
Where ice and buds of Spring both
Come to sing.

I sit on ground that’s cold, but
Warming and find myself a little
Lost, and drifting on the thought
Of Henry talking to the trees
And birds, and breathe the words
Of who I am in steadily
Trembling swipes of pen, that
Take me into myself again, with
Smells of nature and the touch
Of my Creator.

I am courageous and calm, no
Cover on and the misapplied 
Disguises gone, where my 
Transparency is elegant and strong,
A naked face towards the calls of
Longing and the place to pause,
To pause,
To taste the many flavors of my


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