Flowers of Creation

his mind, evolved

to infinity, after he had

realized that he

had been here before.

it took a specific

recognition of much

of his physical, mental,

and spiritual worlds.

does the petal of

the first flower realize

that he has thousands

of brothers and sisters?

do the stones fear

the blood on the desert,

as the great red fire

falls, again, from the sky?

my blood was green

as the cactus, as cool

as night water, as sweet

as any breath of life.

his blood spilled across

his hands and feet, and I

swore I heard him say,

“I have been here, before.”

holding out his hands, to a dying sky,

his Earth, he holds his bright, red heart,

his offering, for dreams of a deeper,

golden globe, in which time rewards

greens and blues, with the nature

the cosmos intended. falling to his

knees, he prays, and a tiny flower,

from the center of his heart, grows

tender red petals. he cries, with

joy, he spreads the Earth and places

into the ground, his heart. tiny red

petals peer into the air, his empty

hands fill his head with sweet visions

of what might be. contented by his

labor, he lies near to his flower,

without his heart, he is to die. the

lids, against his eyes, slowly close,

as he focuses, one last time. rich,

red petals, against a now hopeful sky,

he sees his flower, and then he dies.

We had all heard of her and her magnificent perspective.

She was like reading The Giving Tree on rainy Sundays,

rivulets streaming down cracked panes toward flaking paint,

she never seemed to capture me quite the same as on those days.

We all knew her, and loved her, as well we should,

she was what we dreamed of when we dream of love.

We, from our far away corners, sometimes too curious

not to look around. Sometimes spying each other’s eyes,

looking across from the other side. Other times it was just her,

like Venus, in her day, golden and lovely, as if her flowing locks

represent more than what this life had to give.

So many times we tried to move more toward her.

A sudden recognition of our needs, caused us to recall

something that we thought we had once needed, something

we thought we had once needed to be alive, and that’s when

you begin to appreciate the true beauty that she represents.

The closer we got to her, the harder we tried. It seemed so

confusing: who was using who, instead of together, we tried

to find, in our minds, those shields guarded against the great

winds of time, held back by forts with sides from which we could

peer around our curious corners, distrustful and empty. You see

she can tell us who she is but she cannot show us how to find her.

one thousand

shards of shade lean

instinctively eastward.

time moves shadows

from shadows to

sunlight’s dull green.

reaching fibers

dream of the

bright moon, the

blue cast, as life

drains westward.

hearts cool, tender

night’s wind recalls days

before adornment

was necessary,

era of tall seed,

chaff adored duty

then fell into darkness.

leaving simple treasures

to await the promise

light delivers.

she is a flower

with lips so sweet

they tell me her name

her real name

not just what

someone once called her.

passion, bewilderment,

laughter, and love

exist within her,

as I catch her gaze

seemingly unoccupied

by the challenges

of the day.

her eyes then focus,

her name once again

reflects paternal inheritance,

my momentary glimpse

of her inner beauty was

replaced by my shy reaction.

you see, it was me

upon whom she focused

instinctively recognizing

my celebration of her

undisturbed radiance.

my poor inner self

denied by external forces

let in through her recognition

and noted deftly

through a sudden shift

of my earthly eyes away.

Upon entering his shop, I present my broken watch.

His thoughtful hands accept the timepiece

as if the watch represents time itself.

He positions a loupe, which had been resting upon

his forehead over his right eye. I can only imagine this

allows him to more carefully view the inner workings.

With careful precision, his agile hands remove

from the rear of the watch a tiny steel plate and,

with the curiosity of a creator, he inspects the inside.

After a solitary moment, he looks up to greet me

with the warm regard usually reserved for those who

seem to look through my eyes, straight into my soul.

“I see the problem”, he says with tenderness.

He looks deeply into my eyes, as if to conjure my spirit

and asks in a simple voice, “How does this watch tell time?”

I am confused. I try to look away but cannot.

I feel as if I am to bear witness to my soul within his gaze

and cannot find within myself an answer to his question.

He finally speaks, “This watch tells time by dividing the day

into carefully calculated increments of meaning and purpose.”

He leans forward to continue, “How do you tell time?”