Year Gave Me

I was overseas at Beginning and
Year gave me.
Light. Year gave me light.
Many.
I am giving the light back, I am selfless and I
loved and I
cried less than I laughed yes and I
sang everyday and played new songs on piano and
sang to them and said
goodbye to some
and I grew
and I smiled and forgave.
I learned.
I felt it all.

Year said, somehow said:

'Melancholy sings deeply and low holding the light and you render yourself harden and warm and very particular. The light is beautiful when found. When found.'

I sing back on track when Light is orange.
Light exists. You are to create.

Seldom, Seth, I Write

It's not safe to assume anything when he renders me warm and selfless,

and I say, Seth,  it is not safe to assume the rain turns to yellow because of the sun.

No one ever agrees sunwise or from whatever makes you holy and this,

Seth, 

this makes me drop the white from the shell at the speed of molasses.

If two ever agree, the nectar that weaves from that beautiful share of breaths and silence is going to be yellow and orange maybe and warm, beautiful, tender and swift.

It's not safe to assume anything. 

Don't you dare be disloyal to whatever makes you blossom.

Safe alright.

Seldom I have strength to write about this but you weren't here yesterday.

This Was Probably Written On A Mountaintop

If you are to ruin the beautiful,

then I don't want to.

Peril bled through the 

month and it was lukewarm. It left the four of us subdued.

All ended when one of us dropped the wood ashore.

I wasn't aware of the possibilities and that left him infested and hard.

Sunlight meets your skin as I forgive you.

"Do you remember?",

as if years have gone by.

He was going to save some for later,

but he couldn't remember.

We are all laughing again.

The four of us.

Maybe in different places not altogether.

But that is a good sign.

Warm At Midnight

Up until today, all is (steadily) in hands of the wind.
That is a fragile state.
I can't move or go anywhere.
The wind is beauty and simplicity makes my heart race.
All is blurry up until today, Edna.
The waves.
The motion of the waves strikes inland where the harbor sleeps and the meadow barks at the sun.
To trust the wind means to put aside your expectations.
All will be warm at midnight, soon.

Tainted Delta

I ponder the reason of Delta rising in my meadow is it
something of  'a deeper reasoning unfolding' crap or
lush-in-the-mountains or
a flavor of impecable lust that slips through one's fingers not in winter
not in cold or in a generous breeze but
under a warm sky heavy-handed I perpetuate my own possibilities
to the last
until the last
the last
thought-to-action sway
under good terms
and I should know
)not less than( seldom it is cumbersome to overgrow
the swift foreshadowing.

Lilac Mountain

I am tracing back the marrow of the ancestor, you can let Jesus know.
I am to create.
I am to create.
I am to willingly create the answer, had I found it earlier I wouldn't be standing in this mountain.
Here I hold my breath, heavenly and albeit moon confusion weaves through impossible threads.

My fingers intertwine with the frost.

Darkly and somber I introduce myself inland:
I, the maple son.
The variegated son.
The castaway.
The meadowlark.
The sun.
The nameless.
The forgotten.

The one that got hurt for loving deeply.
------------------------------------------------------------------
I am not the hollow soul.
Or the wooden body you once thought I were.
Rather the opposite.
I am to spread love in natural ways:
I will sow patience with sorrow.
I will sow the rain with the solace.
I will weave love from the nectar of the river whilst I cry from disappointment
but
holding
back
the flame
that the ancestor
once
held
warmly and firmly and wading was he wading I am wading through him and back to us.
I am diluting the poison-I-believe I can find the truth that will set my
self
free from
lies and free from
fear
or free from
freefalling.

I am his own self.
I am to be loved the same way I do.
I am to create.
I aim to create.

There's more than meets the eye.
I made mistakes through this century but I see you down there, from up here.

To be loved is what I truly aspire.
Clean. Cristalized, in Lilac Mountain.
The maple son is far stronger than you could imagine.
Right.
Try me but find me first. I am eleven miles ahead south.