what is a column  
of thoughts in the heaven of
mind our creation

Trust the sun (she says)
her first rays when creation was young
and God's window opened outward
as a place of worship
born to be breathtaken
daylight imploring for companionship
and bleeding into itself
as it bleeds into the worshipper.

She notices that her own taste
in repeating patterns doesn’t mesh
with the apparently similar
patterns in Drakensberg
they obey a different logic, and the friction
between them generates
a fascinatingly ambiguous color.

Tinctured cathedral of time passing
on its first layer of stairs...

My mind was made of moonlight and fresh strawberries
Of a sunset kissing the perfect G chord
The interweavings of dreams and earth
A push and pull kind of mentality
Suspended in air
Until the last breath falls
My words are glass,
Sleek and breakable but
Strong against the wind
I dont forget a face
Or a mental illness
My songs are a life of their own
My stories, a world incongruous with reality
I've been sewn together with slivers of ocean foam
I've been given eyes of the first winter breeze
I am incomplete
I hold the world in a box buried in my chest
Beating away
Away
Away

~
scarlet wind sails
upon an ultrasounding wave,
postcards from tiny islands;
nebulous, indefinable, floating,
fresh as a field
of crackerjacks;
nodding happily
from minute one,
celebrating the mountains
and valleys of being alive
in excelsis; irresistible and impish
in its understated insinuations.
~

Greater than all created things summed up
And multiplied by immortality,
The LORD attends to every buttercup
And blade of grass and bird and bumblebee.
The greatest knows the least; and every man
His every hair has been accounted for;
And all of him is fitted to God's plan
The world and all creation to restore.  
Everything's His to give or take or loan,
And nothing lies beyond His lone control.  
Everything's His, and every thing is known
By Him who sees all parts and every whole.
He understands, both root and all, and all
In all, the flower in the crannied wall.

As the rain gently falls
The birds continue to sing
I think of the grace I have
All thanks to a mighty king

The trickle of the gutter
A quiet sound but not a mutter
The beauty of it all calms me
Stops my heart from its flutter

Me and my journal
Got those old country blues.
Turns out,
White hot heat
Doesn’t make
for a 'Brown River, Smile'.

So,
    I cried some.

Then bought eggs. And flour.
And sugar. And butter, for cake

    And made one.  

Because young life during hard times
In old country
Isn’t left with much else
to do–

    Just make something beautiful
    And hope to get through.