Some moss and meltwater
flashing in the placid gulch.
The delicate theatrics
of any flower’s mouth.
All the tranquil angles
quilted into a female face.
The hand that was made
to touch
the saddest parts of trees.
Where does gentleness go
when softness shuts down?
How does kindness survive
the numb rage of global heartbreak?
How can one be expected
to opt for heroic tenderness
when brutality is the bride of success?
Several blackbirds knitting
cadences in mid-air. A child
murmuring to the daymoon.
Grass lost to the winter
finding its green heart again.
Today is the first day of Spring
and here is my little pagan prayer:
That gentleness may find you,
no matter who or where you are,
and open all the disheartened
parts of you that perhaps
you did not even know were closed.
