The blossoms are calm, and yet still, she sings for
the heavens within, the white heron bows to the sea water,
It sees the clouds of night touched by lunar wind, the
lucid paintings of seagrass contemplate the presence of the
poet floating upon the waters, and say to her, “you too, have wings”,  
the lights beneath her as dewdrops, bright as cricket melody, the lone lantern glows in the silent hour of all, where the artist’s senses awaken as ripples of butterflies opening, the petals in far  flight ask her, “are you I?” , her starry form is light upon the mirror of the moon, a ghost of time and being, the beauty of imperfection decorated her as the
stars, the heron asked her, “your nature is delicate as my feathers, why did you wish to hide?” she sung back “I hid because I was afraid, I loved in a world of no love, I realize now, to reveal the amygdala that lives in color is to be brave in a world of grey, to be delicate is a strength, to have tears is to have power, to paint your emotions through eyes and lips is grace, being is the greatest gift” she perceived her revelation, “I am human, in solace with both light and dark”, her hands floated upon the water, the sounds of the ocean echo the endless journey, she becomes the milky amber dream, night has turned to day, the flower of the sea has found her abode in the one whom has loved her before existence, she spoke not, for all the songs have already been sung,
the eons have spoken, softly, she folds her eyelids in the heavenly warmth, there is only her whisper, “I have returned to you when I was never lost”

While amongst the tresses of velvet night upon the moon river there lived a fairy that felt the echoes as she caressed her fingers upon the silvery water, she was the one with the dark eyes as bright as stars and a heart purer than the first snowfall, the voice of her glided through the clear waters and high into the wind as the leaves danced to her ethereal barefoot step through the mist shrouded forest where her companions, the fawns and the birds, were at peace where they lived. Until a traveler arrived one night and was enchanted by the soft, honey breath of her symphony, Indeed, in harmony they were, as the strums of his lute shared with her voice until time had passed for the mortal traveler and his spirit left the forest. The fairy and the animals were saddened by his leaving, so the fairy flew to the branch they sat upon that neighbored the celestials and she found a strand of silver blonde hair as a memory of her lover. Soon, she then returned to her companions and buried the strand within the earth, then, with the power of the sun and the fairy’s tears, a plant soon arrived as the flower of Galanthus.

The porcelain
wind of the
moon lifts
it’s wings
of mine
to see
the clouds,
deserts and
dreams of
reality as
one, the
endless
stories of
the green
and golden
fields of
painted
starlight,
the breath
of unspoken
songs in the
conversation
of eyes, too
aerial to be
held, as the
rising, gentle
wind through
the leaves,
and the hair
of lovers in
discovery
of forests
touched
with mist,
rising above
the mountains,
falling as the
song of rain,
they are
rain dancers
who see poetry
as all, and all
is water

All is still amongst my little waves of ebb and flow,
yet I am still as the traveler holding a luminescence
close inside as a lantern, the light through the
crevices of my soul was once the constellations,
I am in the journey to seek the ones to hold it
with those who are as swaying daisies with music
moving through their ether that is far yet near,
the snowflakes from the high mountains
fall gentle on my skin and theirs as though
they are in never-ending tales.

The gentle
creature was
lost in her
thoughts,
like clouds
on a starry
night, where
all the galaxies
shined for her,
the special
one who’s
light was
the brightest,
when she
cried, the
songs of
angels
healed her,
whenever
she felt
so alone,
their white
wings dress
her short
hair in
flowers of
carnations
and roses,
even though,
her beauty
was created
to be greater
than those
petals, for
they came
from her,
unaware
of how
radiant
she was,
In tears
she stayed,
until one
day, a bird
came by her
windowsill,
and sang
to her,
“you, the
fairest and
most delicate
one, came
to world
with your
wings of
white,
with the
purest
symphony
wrapped
safely in
the locket
of your
heart,
with time,
the darkness
of man haunted
your existence,
fear not, your
song will live
on forever
and more,
healing the
ones who
seek refuge
in love,
I shall fly
above,
though I
will never
be far, for
you are with
me everywhere
I soar, you are
the waves
of deeper
rising clouds,
where your
song returns
to your
embrace”,
she asks
the bird,
“will the song
heal their
suffering?”
the bird
replies,
“they shall
hear you
once they
awaken,
when the
time will
come,
when your
radiance
will be
revealed,
the flower
of you
will bloom
gardens
in their
chests”,
she then
replies
to the bird,
“as love
would
do”, the
room
fell in
silence
as the
trees,
in gentle
music, had
danced
with the
night wind,
the bird
then took
flight,
and she
heard these
words being
sung “you
have spoken
the truth, and
wisdom
shall light
your path
wherever
you may
sojourn,
my flower,
rise, and
guide the
dreamers!

She
wished
to write
the diary
of a flower,  
unknowing
of how the
pages were
endless,
as the
song
of her
beautiful
mind the
garden
came
forth
from,
her
soft
angel
eyes
opened
for the
eyes of
a book
within
her private
perusal,
where her
being had
came to the
embrace,
and so
followed
her heart,
the rest
came
In waves
as her
hands
stroked her
gentle
features,
her skin
was the
winter
moon,
though
not fairer
than her
deeper
thoughts
as a blue
sea with
the softer
whispers
of clouds,
her home
lyed within
the deepest
part of the
library,
seldom
wandering
to the cafe,
her heart
wished to
sees beauty
In others
veiled to
the eyes,
wondrously,
she meditated
upon the light
waiting to be
sought, the
butterfly
to touch
her palms,
eventide
fell as
she walked
through the
garden by
the moon,
hidden
with the
roses
forever,
the poet
of love who
gazed upon
a symphony
of dew-beads
as stars,
appearing
as shrines
of memory,
as the night
lights of a
universe
for only
her,
as she
gazed
upon them,
with her
gentle
voice,
she sang,
“can I call
this love,
or the words
of falling rain?”
as she watched,
with the leaves,
and the gentle
dew, opening for
love letters
untold,
her lips
touched
the petals,
and tears
fell from
her eyes,
and upon
the white
petals,
the night
sleeps
forever,
the tears
became
the far
tides
of an
ocean,
love is
the rose
of suffering
and beauty,
and the one
whom has
known it
lives forever
as a home
for others,
the nightingale
sings as her
ink flowed as
waves
upon her
papers,
where she
wandered, with
meditations upon
Monet arose
as lullabies
of a secret
world,
songs of
honeysuckle
and wisteria
brighter
than the
wings
of fairies,
the small gifts of
precious wonders
she held with all
the curiosity
in her hands,
as she
thought
to herself,
were these
lights, or
the few
thousands
teaching
her to
dance
from
within?
she reaches
the waters,
and the
delicate,
fair form
touched
the moonlit
mirrors,
where she
witnessed
the truth
beyond
words,
amongst
the tear
painted
petals, the
moon sings
the symphony
for her, “are you
the one I have
been seeking?”
as it’s light
touches her
wandering
steps, she
returns to
her home,
and in her
blankets,
she writes,
“to my lover,
I will remember
how we met
each other
as waves,
from the
lost, far
away
parts
of the
ocean,
we found
the shores
becoming
eyes, they had
sought themselves
to be lost in legions
of constellations
in the galaxies
of hearts,
with the stars
that waited
to be born,
the flecked
specks of light in
divinations of the
midnight hours,
and reminisced
the dappled
dreams of
colors and
witnessed
beauteous
musing, in
the cafe,
where our
conversations
poured
the seas
into cups
of tea, and
explored
the question
of metamorphosis
through words,
shifting time
through the
touching of
marble cups
and the colloquy
of our eyes, the
artistry in the
miracle of the
gentle, I walked
In flight with you,
as we shared the
unspoken stories
of our hearts
woven through
the rain,
under the
umbrellas
leading
to your
home,
where we
watched
the paintings
of the night
skies as the
memories
of us, the
lights
touched
by the
secret
garden,
where I
wandered”.
her hands
then closed
the pages,
and her eyes
rested upon
the pillow,
and the
moon
chants,
“O fair
maiden,
you are
the one
whose
existence
Is loved, the
nightingale
has sung to
you upon
It’s branch
near your
window,
though
fairer is
your
voice,
you are
the gentle
one who
turns all
of what
you have
seen to
artistry,
when
you love,
all is in
bloom,
la fleur
de lune.

You


A leaf
sings
it’s own
tale for
you, in
symphony
with the
delicate
branches
of your veins,
as you lie
there and
hear the
music you
once had
sought to
hide, you
wished to
write about
it, rather,
you closed
your eyes,
for the ones,
as you, who
struggled to
reveal their
words are
the ones
with the
deepest
wells of
feeling,
you, who
was once
amongst
those in the
sea of nothing,
sung your
song and
found a drop
akin to their
own, and so,
you and them
were no longer
a blur.