Monday, May 20, 2013


Love that cannot suffer is not worthy of that name. 
--Clare of Assisi

Scampering through a dark night on a strip of warm sidewalk,
A tiny chipmunk freezes as he senses a presence of magnitude.
He sniffs the air that begins to glow with hazy warmth;
The pulsing atmosphere wraps liltingly around
His small young body like ethereal arms of love.

There is no silence, only the sandpaper sound of the wind
as it scrapes sand and dust over the concrete,
a gentle erosion.
The same fierce breath that carves cliffs
rustles the fur on the chipmunk's back.

There are no stars, only dull moonlight, shrouded by clouds--
the night's velvet pall.
Their lights cutting through the thick darkness,
Small fireflies flit beneath the trees,
Tiny mobile beacons of hope.

The wind teaches the young tree how to form words.
The small green sapling reaches deep within the ground to find
Ancient sentences, caked with moss and mold.
Sparked by the warm air, its sap runs wild,
intoxicated with the wild joy of the thesaurus.

A mother holds her child in her arms,
Singing her to sleep with a thousand heady melodies,
Promising a world that waits for a young child's wise eyes
Beyond the amber sky of the sunrise.

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