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Prosper in no space but your
own; spread out green across the
face of doubt,

The banks of shimmering sunsets
out to pasture.

The peace is bound to be there.

Accept the warmth when cold, the
shadow when hot, cool breezes in
time to heal,

A water emerges from you, from
without too, evaporation
creating the dream of truth
on the horizon as you wait for

God is watching the rainbow as we
Hers after the rain; Hers on mountainsides
from Greyhound in Spring up
to the Area’s brisk bay.

When I cannot find the Power to
express, undress. Know. The rainbow
is gold before found in pots by lovers
and streams.

God is pleased when we bloom; all that
work to let it out suddenly.

So private are we, so introspective until
the fall. We gather steam, are as much
a self-willed as inspired dream as we wake up
to one more thing, again and again

The Autumn of Regret falling.

Bloom: where planted they say, or
release your pollen of paintings, songs
and books across all divides to end
up at new beginning’s silver intermission.

Elmer Bernstein’s playing something classical
against our laughs, and with us is God
laughing, hopeful like us—

Meanwhile we sift through the soil, private
in that redundant Winter until alone we know:

There will be another summer, with or without
bodies, the essences of Truth
on a JFK flag, holding on to your ideals against
threats and bothers.

War is the sprouting of a seed through snow and
dirt and water and wind.

Ahhhhh! Reach up to the Sun at least one more time,

One more day. Now, then, with me and give thoughts
to your descent, shower in light and give again…

Expression, God on a higher hill laughing…

Waiting, awaiting your bloom.


So eat, drink, replenish and be ready, and
when or if called… open. If not called, open
louder and brighter.

If never called, know that God was calling,
never more pleased as at the lonely
bloom blooming uphill against the storm.

You are recorded, you are here;
there are no enemies at the core—

Shout “Joy” at blooms to be, so that
forever shall there be more…

Life. The only worthwhile war.